Sympathetic Properties
by Mr Norrell
Summary: Having been treated as a servant his entire life, what would have happened if Harry had been more sympathetic when Dobby came to call? (Character-centered drama with bits of humor on the side.)
1. Dobby's Plight

**AN:** If you accept anything, including the words of J. K. Rowling, as the Indisputable Truth about all things Harry Potter then this story's not for you since I'll slowly warp everything you think you know about the 'verse. Likewise, if you shun certain things commonly found in fanfiction then I ask you to still give things a shot because I guarantee you've never seen it done like this.

This line is the obligatory notice that I'm not J. K. Rowling and own none of her characters.

.o0O0o.

After a day spent in the blazing hot sun cleaning the windows, washing the car, mowing the lawn, trimming the flower beds, pruning and watering the roses, repainting the garden bench and having only two slices of bread and a hunk of cheese for dinner, Harry Potter was going to be spending the rest of his twelfth birthday in his room pretending he didn't exist. His relatives, the Dursleys of number 4 Privet Drive, were spending his birthday doing precisely the same thing... while hosting a dinner party that they had specifically informed him that he would _not _be attending.

Having a horrible birthday shouldn't have surprised him by this point. His aunt and uncle seemed to take pride in keeping him as miserable as possible. This was precisely why Harry's racing broom and all of his books on magic had promptly been locked away in the cupboard under the stairs the instant he'd returned from his first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

The only thing even slightly unusual about his birthday so far had been the bulbous pair of eyes that had been staring at him from a hedge earlier that day. That, Harry supposed, and the conspicuous absence of mail from his school friends. If he hadn't known it was impossible he'd swear the Dursleys were somehow behind all of his friends not writing to him. He had gotten nothing from Ron or Hermione, his two best friends, or even Hagrid, who had been the first magical person Harry had ever met. Ron said he'd write to invite him to stay with his family over the break but with the way things were that didn't look like that would ever happen.

After more than a month spent stuck with the Dursleys Harry would've given anything for a bit of mail. Even a taunting note from I'm–better–than–you Draco Malfoy or a grease–stained missive from the evil git of a potions master Severus Snape would've been welcome since it'd at least prove that this whole last year had actually happened.

As he entered his bedroom, intending to flop down on his bed and get an early night, Harry learned that life had other plans for it was at that precise moment that the magical world had decided to pay him a visit.

Harry managed not to shout when he saw the strange little creature on his bed, though it was a close–run thing. The last thing he wanted was his Uncle Vernon to come blundering up here accusing him of ruining his party. There'd be no telling what he'd do.

Instead, Harry stood stock–still and blinked at the little bat–eared creature. The creature's bulging green tennis ball–like eyes blinked back. Harry knew instantly that this had been the thing that had been staring at him from the hedge earlier today. But, what did it want?

As they stared at each other, Harry heard Dudley's voice from the hall below.

"May I take your coats, Mr. and Mrs. Mason?"

The dinner party had started. Harry closed the door as the creature, clad only in an old pillowcase with rips for its arms and head, slipped off the bed and bowed so low that the end of its long nose touched the carpet.

"Harry Potter!" the creature said.

"Er – Hello," he replied.

"So long has Dobby wanted to meet you, sir..." the creature said. "Such an honor it is..."

"Er – Thank you. Can I help you?" Harry asked.

"Help Dobby!" the spritely creature cried, in a tone Harry was sure would carry downstairs. "Never has someone asked to help Dobby! Dobby has heard of your greatness–" the creature bowed again, "But never has Dobby dreamed to be helped by Harry Potter." The creature looked up at him, eyes alight in adulation.

"Er – Don't mention it," Harry replied, at a loss for how else to respond as he edged his way over to sit on the desk chair next to his snowy owl, Hedwig, still asleep in her cage.

"If I can ask–," Harry said before he stopped himself. He had been intending to ask _'what are you'_ but now didn't think that would go over too well at all. Instead he finished with "–who are you?"

"Oh!" The creature said nervously. "Apologies, sir. I'm Dobby, sir. Just Dobby. Dobby the house–elf." It picked at its old dirty pillowcase, perhaps thinking it should have changed before coming. Not wanting to make the creature feel any worse, Harry decided to be as civil as possible.

"While I'm very pleased to meet you, Dobby, right now isn't a great time to have a house–elf in my bedroom. I could get into a lot of trouble if my relatives knew you were here."

"Oh!" Dobby squeaked loudly before immediately clasping his hands over his mouth, his eyes darting between Harry and the door before speaking more quietly.

"Apologies, sir. Dobby understands. If Dobby's family knew Dobby was here...," the creature shuddered.

"Your family?" asked Harry curiously.

"The wizarding family Dobby serves, sir. Dobby is a house–elf, bound to serve one house and one family forever."

"And your family doesn't know that you're here?"

Dobby shook his head so quickly his ears were almost slapping against his face.

"Oh, no, sir, no... Dobby will have to punish himself most grievously for coming to see you, sir. Dobby will have to shut his ears in the oven door for this. If they ever knew, sir–! But Dobby had to come," Dobby finished earnestly.

"That's horrible," Harry exclaimed. "Won't they notice if you shut your ears in an oven door?"

"Dobby doubts it, sir. Dobby is always having to punish himself for something. Sometimes they reminds Dobby to do _extra _punishments..."

Harry couldn't think of anything more horrible. Dobby's family actually made the Dursleys sound warm and cuddly by comparison. While this would probably be a touchy subject, memories of his days spent working like a slave for the Dursleys in a prison he couldn't wait to flee from soon had Harry resolved to help someone else break free from theirs too if he could.

"So why don't you just leave? Escape?" he asked, having asked himself that same thing so many times before.

"Because a house–elf must be set free, sir," Dobby said as if explaining something obvious. "And the family will never set Dobby free... Dobby will serve the family until Dobby dies, sir..." Dobby sniffed and blew his nose on his already soiled pillowcase.

"Isn't there someone else you can call, like the Ministry?" Harry asked appalled. "Surely they can stop it."

"Oh, no, sir, no," Dobby replied. "So long as the family owns Dobby the family can do what they wants."

That gave Harry an idea.

"Do you think they'd sell you, Dobby? Do you think I could buy you?"

Almost at once, Harry wished he hadn't spoken as Dobby dissolved into wails.

"Please," Harry whispered frantically as Hedwig perked up and stared disapprovingly at the little noise–maker. "Please be quiet. If the Dursleys hear anything, if they know you're here–." Harry chanced a look towards the door. "I didn't mean to offend you or anything."

"Offend Dobby! Harry Potter asks if he can _buy Dobby_... Dobby has heard of your greatness, sir, but of your goodness, Dobby never knew..." Dobby cried, burying his face in Harry's jeans.

Hedwig turned to look at Harry, as if it were his fault the little guy was here, as Dobby occupied himself by wiping his nose on his already dirty pillowcase as the tears rolled down his cheeks. Harry stood, wanting to give sniffling creature time to pull himself together.

"Wait here, Dobby. I'll be right back," Harry said as he patted the little guy on his head and slipped out the door.

As quietly as he could, Harry made his way to the bathroom and filled a small paper cup with cool water from the tap. He got back into the hall just as his Uncle Vernon reached the end of the Japanese golfer joke he'd been practicing all week.

"–There they found the Japanese man, squatting with his pants down around his ankles!" Vernon said agog.

Harry rolled his eyes.

_"'__What on earth are you doing?!'_ cried the American," Vernon continued. "The Japanese fellow looked up and without pause, replied–"

"Here you go, Dobby," Harry said as he closed the door and handed the little elf the cup of water. "Why don't you sit down and drink this."

The little creature looked at the paper cup as if he had never seen anything so precious.

"Harry Potter served Dobby! And he's been asked to sit down – like an equal," Dobby said awestruck.

"Of course you have been; you're my friend."

"A–a friend?" Dobby asked.

"Absolutely. You came here to visit me and you've been nice, which is more than my other friends have done. That makes you my friend," Harry explained, as if to a child.

Once again tears fell from Dobby's eyes.

"Dobby does not deserve to be served by Harry Potter!" Dobby said as he sat the still–full cup of water on the desk. In a flash Dobby had rammed his head against the desk drawers making an ungodly racket.

"_Bad _Dobby! _Bad _Dobby!" he cried, slamming into the desk and spilling water all over himself.

Quickly Harry pulled Dobby away from the desk and placed him on the bed, surreptitiously wiping his now grimy hands on his trousers. The noise from downstairs stilled for a moment and they waited with bated breath before the talk from below started again.

"Harry Potter has been so nice to Dobby!" Dobby said more quietly. "Harry Potter asked to _buy_ Dobby. If Harry Potter knew what Dobby has done he would not be wanting to help him!"

Harry sat down on the bed next to Dobby and put his hand on the creature's cleanest shoulder.

"Why don't you just tell me what all this is about and I'll make that decision for myself."

"Yes, sir. Apologies, sir. Dobby wonders where to begin."

"Does it have anything to do with why you came here?" Harry prompted.

"Oh, yes, sir. Dobby had to come. Dobby had to warn Harry Potter." Dobby seemed to curl himself even smaller and lowered his voice before continuing. "There's a plot," Dobby said conspiratorially. "A plot to make the most terrible things happen. Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year! And Dobby thought – that if Harry Potter thought that his friends had forgotten him–."

"So _you're _the reason my friends haven't been writing me?" Harry asked, trying not to let any of the sudden aggravation he felt bleed into his words.

"Yes, sir. And then Harry Potter calls Dobby _friend!"_ Dobby wailed.

"Shush, Dobby. I understand," Harry said, trying to calm the elf by telling it what it obviously wanted to hear. "You were only trying to protect me, which is more than any of my relatives have ever done," he finished sourly.

"Ah, sir!" Dobby cried through his tears. "Harry Potter is not speaking of his mother, sir, who died to protect him!"

That struck Harry to the core. He hadn't thought the elf would speak of that. He didn't even know what to say to that. How could he have forgotten his parents on his birthday? It was all most people talked about around him. His looks, her eyes, they're dead – aren't you happy being famous!

"Harry Potter has braved so many dangers already!" Dobby sniffled, dabbing his face with a corner of the grubby pillowcase he was wearing. "Dobby heard tell that Harry Potter met the Dark Lord for a second time, just weeks ago... and Harry Potter escaped _again_."

Harry nodded.

"Ah, sir," Dobby gasped. "Harry Potter is valiant and bold! Harry Potter must _not_ go back to school this year. Terrible things will happen. Harry Potter must stay where he is safe! He is too great, too good, to lose. If Harry Potter goes back to Hogwarts, he will be in mortal danger."

"If I _don't_ go back to Hogwarts, Dobby, then my _friends _will be in mortal danger. If terrible things _are_ going to happen then I've got to be there to help them. I promise to be on alert, Dobby, but you've got to tell me more. What terrible things? And who's plotting them?"

Dobby made a funny choking noise and then raced to bang his head frantically against the wall.

"All right!" cried Harry, grabbing the elf's arm to stop him. "You can't tell me. I understand. But why are you warning _me?"_ A sudden, unpleasant thought struck him. "Hang on – this hasn't got anything to do with your family, does it? Are they the ones doing the plotting?"

Dobby was as still as a statue, except his eyes which darted between the desk and the nearest wall. He looked torn between punishing himself and terrified that anything he did would be taken as confirmation.

"Sorry, Dobby," Harry said. "Forget I asked. I should have known that you wouldn't be able to answer that one either."

Dobby stiffly sat back down on the edge of the bed, looking very much that he had unknowingly strolled into a minefield and still shooting glances at the desk from time to time.

Harry decided it was time to end it. "I want you to know, Dobby, that you're a very good elf. Thank you for warning me. Now that I know trouble is coming I can warn others and try to avoid it myself. You've done a very good job."

With the questioning seemingly at an end, Dobby finally seemed to relax.

"You've tried to help me, Dobby, and you're my friend. Now I'd like to help you, if I can."

Dobby turned and looked up at him, his eyes sparkling with unshed tears. "Harry Potter is too good for words, sir."

"I understand you probably can't tell me _who_ your family is, but is there someone I could talk to about buying you myself? Is it even possible?" Harry asked.

"It is – possible, sir," Dobby seemed to hunt for words. "Sometimes Dobby must buy things for the family, sir. Small things. They would never trust Dobby with much, sir, but little things like food, quills and ink... There's a place Dobby can go for money. They know Dobby there, sir."

"You mean Gringotts? The bank in Diagon Alley?"

"Oh, yes, sir. They handle the family's money all the time. All the old families have someone there that handles it for them, sir. Dobby's sure–" Dobby said, twisting his ears as if he were trying to twist around his family's rules, "–that if Harry Potter asks around, that is – that Harry Potter could find someone... who knows someone... who knows Dobby's family, sir."

Dobby heaved a sigh of relief. "Dobby's sure _they_ could ask Dobby's family if they would sell Dobby to Harry Potter," he smiled.

"That's great Dobby."

Suddenly Dobby's face was stricken. "But sir! Harry Potter _must not _ask Dobby's family to sell Dobby to him!"

"What? Why not? Don't you want to leave your family?" Harry asked confused.

"Oh, yes, sir. More than anything Dobby would want to work for Harry Potter."

"Then what's the problem?"

"Dobby's family would never _sell_ to Harry Potter, sir. They do not _like _Harry Potter. If _Harry Potter_ asks the family to sell Dobby, Dobby would likely be _killed!"_ Dobby's hands sprung back over his mouth, as if speaking the dreaded thought would somehow make it come true that instant.

"That's alright, Dobby. I don't want you to get in trouble because of me." Harry tried to comfort the elf. Suddenly, another part of what Dobby said struck him. "Dobby, you said that _all_ the old families have someone there to handle their money?"

"Oh, yes, Harry Potter. That's how they breed their money, sir."

"Well, _I_ have money there, Dobby. Money I got from my parents. That should mean _I've_ got someone there too, shouldn't it? I don't know who it is, but I could write them and find out. Then _they_ could find someone to find someone to find your family and ask them to sell you without them ever knowing who's buying you. Wouldn't _that_ be alright?"

"Harry Potter would do that for Dobby?" Dobby asked standing.

"Absolutely," Harry smiled.

Dobby beamed.

"But you've got to do something for me though, Dobby," Harry said.

"Anything, sir," Dobby said earnestly.

"I'd like to have my letters back."

Dobby's face fell.

"Do you still have them?" Harry asked.

"Dobby has them here, sir," the elf quietly responded as his ears seemed to wilt.

Slowly Dobby's hand went into his pillowcase and withdrew a thick wad of envelopes. Harry could make out Hermione's neat writing, Ron's untidy scrawl, and even a scribble that had to come from the Hogwarts gamekeeper, Hagrid. Dobby held them tightly to his chest.

"Please, Dobby?" Harry asked. "I understand that you only want to keep me safe, but I have to keep my friends safe, including you. If I can get those letters then I _promise _that I'll do everything I can to get your family to sell you to me. After that, you can come with me to Hogwarts and help me keep my friends safe. I'll even introduce you and we can _all_ be friends. What do you say?"

Harry could see that he had reached Dobby and put him between two things he really wanted. He had seen it before on Uncle Vernon, usually when it meant him having to choose between giving Harry something he wanted, meaning he wouldn't be around for a while, or refusing Harry's chance to be momentarily happy, even if it meant he'd still be under foot.

With Uncle Vernon it had always been funny; with Dobby it was just heartbreaking. On one hand Dobby could give up the letters and possibly be free from the family that hated him, only to have to follow Harry into danger, while on the other hand he could keep the letters and try to keep Harry from going to Hogwarts, even if it meant never being with people who liked him.

Slowly the tear–streaked Dobby extended the bundle of letters toward him and put them in Harry's hand.

"My apologies, sir. Dobby never should have done that," Dobby sniffed.

"Don't be sorry, Dobby. If you hadn't, you never would've come here and we never would've been friends."

Dobby gave him a watery smile.

"One last thing, Dobby," Harry said, thinking of a rather large flaw in his plan. "I don't have any quill or parchment. All my stuff is locked up in the cupboard under the stairs. Do you think you could get it for me? That way I could write Gringotts straight away."

Hedwig rattled against the lock on her cage.

"Shh! Sorry, Hedwig, I forgot. She's locked up too. I'd do it myself but I'm not allowed to use magic outside of school," Harry explained.

"Not to worry, sir," Dobby said energetically. "Dobby can do it. House–elves is best at working unnoticed."

Dobby snapped and as quickly and as quietly as that he wafted away like smoke on a breeze, only to return a moment later with Harry's trunk and broom beside him.

"That's brilliant, Dobby. You're amazing! And now Hedwig?"

Dobby nodded, reached through the narrow bars of the owl's cage and wafted them both about a foot away from where they started, leaving only the cage behind.

"Thank you! She's been in there for ages," Harry said as Hedwig gave Dobby an affectionate nip.

"You're most welcome, sir," Dobby said as the snowy owl flew out of the window to finally do some hunting.

"Well, it was very nice to meet you, Dobby, and I hope to see you again very soon," Harry smiled.

"Oh, Dobby is looking forward to it, sir," Dobby replied before disappearing once again.

Harry wished he had been able to learn more about these terrible events that Dobby's family was plotting but since the whole family issue was a big red button that only caused the creature to hurt himself, he figured that he had probably gotten everything he could from the tiny elf. He could only hope that once he had convinced this mysterious family to sell Dobby to him that he'd be able to find out more of what the elf knew.

The jovial sounds from below told Harry that the dinner party had begun to break up. Uncle Vernon must have weaseled his way into that sizable order of drills he'd been looking for and was now shuffling the Masons out the door before the builder could change his mind.

Not wanting his first glimmer of freedom in weeks to be quashed the first time someone opened the door, Harry placed his broom and Hedwig's empty cage inside his wardrobe and hauled his school trunk to the far side of it to hide it from view.

Soon enough Harry heard the heavy thump of Uncle Vernon's footsteps on the stairs. Not wanting him to burn the recently–received letters like he had done the first hundred or so letters from Hogwarts, Harry stashed them underneath his pillow before doing what he had intended to do all along, flopping back on his bed to relax.

He landed just in time for the door to crash open admitting the obese whale in question.

"What the devil are you doing up here!" his uncle bellowed, his mustache bristling.

"Nothing," Harry lied, still slightly bouncing.

"Have you any idea how many times I had to cough to cover your _nothing?_ I wouldn't have been surprised if the Masons had fled thinking we had the plague!"

"It sounded like it went well," Harry said diplomatically, finally coming to a rest.

"No thanks to you!" Vernon roared.

Quickly his uncle's eyes darted around the room.

"Where's that bloody _pigeon_ of yours anyway? You let her out?" he said, noting the open window.

"I didn't," Harry said quickly. "I put her cage in the wardrobe. I think this way she'll be quiet."

"Good! Leave it there. Maybe this way I'll get a decent night's sleep!" Vernon slammed the door as he left making more noise than Harry had the entire rest of the day combined.

Getting ready for bed, Harry stuffed his discarded clothes into the crack below the door. He hoped that blotting out the light coming from his side would make the Dursleys think he'd gone to sleep and leave him alone. At the very least he hoped it would slow any invasion down long enough for him to hide anything he didn't want them to see.

Hedwig landed on the window sill, the mouse she caught dangling from her beak, just as Harry sat down and took out his letters. When he went to open them she dropped her catch, flapped her wings and clicked her beak, looking at him reproachfully.

As he wondered what he had done he remembered. It wasn't what he _had_ done that she disapproved of; it was what he _hadn't_ done. He had told Dobby that he'd write to Gringotts straight away and as soon as the little guy had disappeared Harry had forgotten all about it.

Mentally thumping himself, Harry retrieved quill, ink, and parchment from his trunk and got to work as Hedwig returned to her nightly pursuits. Half an hour later he sat back to review what he'd done.

_'__To Whomever is in Charge of Old Family Accounts at Gringotts:'_ it started, with as much as he could remember that his old teacher, Mrs. Trunchbull, had said concerning how to write a proper business letter.

_'__It has recently come to my attention that virtually every old wizarding family engages your services in managing their money. I don't know if this is the case for me, but if it is, I would like to know who to refer my business dealings to. I have something that needs to be handled discreetly and could certainly make use of their services, should that person exist at all. If such a person does not already exist then I would like to see about setting something like that up.'_

Looking at it again, Harry thought he had covered the basics. There wasn't too much he could say though until he knew who he was dealing with, or if he was dealing with anyone at all. He couldn't really spell everything out before he knew if there was anyone on the other end of things who was actually listening.

One thing still bothered him though. He had been thinking back to whenever Uncle Vernon had to deal with banks and they had always made him come to them in order to discuss anything. Harry hoped it was to insure confidentiality and not so that they could sit there silently judging you before turning you away. He supposed he might be able to get to London if Ron made good on his plan to invite him to stay, but even at the earliest it'd still be days away.

Harry took up his quill again to add one last line.

_'__While I understand that visiting a bank in person for such things is common, I live with muggles and am not able to visit Diagon Alley very often and would prefer them not to know that I have any money. I truly appreciate your help with these concerns._

_Sincerely,_

_Harry Potter'_

Having finished her meal, Hedwig hopped down onto the desk, obviously ready for her first delivery in months. Harry folded up the letter and fastened it to her leg before a brainwave struck.

"Oh, hang on a minute. I've got something else for you too," Harry said.

Taking out a small bit of parchment, he quickly scratched out a blanket notice to his friends.

_'__Thanks so much for writing me and sorry for not responding sooner. Something odd happened which prevented me from getting your letters until just now. I'll tell you all about it when I respond to your actual letters here soon. I just wanted to let you know that I'm still alive and better now than I've been in weeks, so you can expect to see much more of Hedwig in the days to come._

_Hope to see you again soon,_

_Harry'_

He paused for a moment to consider. Just making the round trip to Ron and Hermione, with a quick stop at Gringotts, would probably take Hedwig until tomorrow afternoon to get back, which would mean he would be able to send her back out again tomorrow night or the next morning with replies to their actual letters. Adding a stop to Hogwarts just to let Hagrid know he was going to respond to his letter later would probably push that up to over two full days of flying.

As much as he liked Hagrid, Harry decided that he would have to wait. Once the lines of communication were open hopefully Ron would pull through with his plan and he'd be free from the Dursleys before he knew it. Staying with Ron would free Hedwig up for the longer trip to Hagrid.

With that in mind Harry addressed the note to Ron and Hermione and let Hedwig clasp it with her beak.

"The large one's for Gringotts," Harry yawned. "I'm not sure who's supposed to get it, or even if anyone's there at the moment, but I suppose there must be someone you can leave it with. The smaller one's for both Ron and Hermione. You might want to take it to Hermione first since Ron would probably bin it after reading it."

The owl simply stared at him a moment, as if he would be telling her the correct way to flap her wings next, before swooping silently into the night. Thinking that he might be more tired than he thought to do something that stupid, he decided to save his friends letters until he was actually awake enough to recognize English as his native tongue.

Harry went to bed with five letters under his pillow and smiled as he drifted off to sleep. It hadn't turned out to be that bad a birthday after all.

.o0O0o.

**AN: ** I really wanted to avoid the "Harry goes to Gringotts" trope and for those who avoids it, don't worry, this is a _very_ different Gringotts than you're used to seeing.

There's so much complaining that _it's so obvious_ that Harry was _abused_ and how _no teacher would've missed the signs_ that I made Harry's former teacher Mrs. Trunchbull, a character from "Matilda" by Roald Dahl, who would have seen any signs of abuse as the hallmarks of a proper upbringing.

Thanks for reading.


	2. Early Morning Waffles

**AN:** With Hedwig gone, the Dursleys unsuitable company, and it being days before the Weasleys were due to arrive, there will be very little in the way of conversation as most of this takes place in Harry's head. I've tried to work around that as best I could.

Looking for a disclaimer? Check chapter one. I have no intention of repeating myself.

.o0O0o.

The day was bright and sunlight streamed through the skylights above as Harry surveyed the Surrey Mall. He had never been before and it was everything he had dreamed it would be. A low hum of conversation nearly overrode the music coming from speakers overhead as happy shoppers in their bright clothing carried big bags from one shop to another.

Harry didn't know where to begin; perhaps a clothes shop so he could finally rid himself of Dudley's hand–me–downs? Or perhaps the shoe store to replace the overlarge trainers he had that were peeling at the bottom. Then again, with an opportunity like this, how could he pass up the arcade and the shooting game his cousin raved about: _Lethal Enforcers_? And there was supposed to be a fountain somewhere that shot water up all the way to the third floor!

He was just on his way to the escalators when he heard it – a determined _tap–tap–tap_. Harry looked around but couldn't see what had drawn his attention. Seeing nothing, he went on his way.

_Tap–tap–tap!_

Harry looked more closely. None of the shoppers showed the slightest concern. Was it common to hear a mysterious tapping noise in malls?

_Tap–tap–tap!_

Finally, he spotted some movement in a nearby window and made a beeline to it.

"Harry Potter!" the caged little creature in the window cried, its big eyes alight with fright.

A large man, which looked suspiciously like Uncle Vernon, reached in and fastened a leash and tiny dog collar around the elf's neck and was now trying to pull the creature out of his cage.

"Get out here, elf!" the man bellowed, giving the leash a good tug.

"No!" Dobby cried, clinging to the bars of his prison for dear life as the collar started to choke him.

_Tap–tap–tap!_ Dobby rapped on the window as Harry tried to find the way into the shop. Where had the door gone!

_Tap–tap–tap!_

"Harry Potter!" _Tap–tap–tap!_ "Harry Potter – must buy Dobby!"

_Tap–tap–tap!_

Harry woke with a start, finding himself in his own bed. The only thing streaming in these windows was a bit of moonlight. He checked the time finding that only a handful of hours had passed since he had sent off Hedwig.

It was little wonder why Dobby's plight had made its way into his dreams for they certainly seemed the stuff of nightmares. Knowing he had done all he could for the elf at the moment, Harry turned over and pulled his thin single sheet back over him, hoping to get a few Dobby–free dreams before dawn.

_Tap–tap–tap!_

Harry snatched his glasses from the bedside table and peered around the room. A shadow moved in the moonlight.

_Tap–tap–tap!_

Harry got up wondering who in the world could have been writing him at four o'clock in the morning. Immediately Harry discarded that idea. No one in the world writes letters in the middle of the night, he's just unused to getting any of them.

Opening the window Harry wasn't too surprised to see a tan tawny owl staring up at him. What did unnerve him was the biggest pair of black eyes he had ever seen doing the staring.

"Er – Hello," Harry said, untying the envelope from its leg as the eyes followed his every move.

"Would you like some water or maybe an owl tre–" he didn't bother finishing the offer since the owl left immediately once its burden was removed.

Seeing the handwriting Harry knew that there actually _was_ someone who writes letters in the middle of the night. It was from Hermione. The owls had definitely made good time.

Harry flipped on his bedroom light and sat at his desk, eager to see what had been so urgent.

_'Harry,_

_Thanks so much for writing. Happy belated birthday by the way. It's good to know you're doing well; I was starting to fear the worst. The owl that I'm sure flew off straight away was called Imogen. You have no idea how lucky you are to have such a personable owl as Hedwig._

_About my letters, you really don't need to bother with them. Basic stuff really. How's your summer, I've been studying, were you going to visit Ron; that sort of thing. It's probably best if you just binned them._

_Anyway, next year's book list should be out any day now. We're going shopping in Diagon Alley the Wednesday after. You'd probably be at Ron's by then, I would think, that way we could all meet up and focus on next year. Let me know what you think._

_Your Friend, Hermione'_

He read the letter again. Something about it just didn't sit right with him. Something was just… _off_. The first and last parts were what he'd expect from a summer letter. It was pretty much the same as he saw other people get in movies.

That second part though, reading that bit a third time started to make his skin crawl._ 'You really don't need to bother with them… It's probably best if you just binned them.'_ That didn't sound like Hermione to him at all. She had never been one to throw any sort of information away, even "basic stuff," so why would _she_ want _him_ to do so now?

Thinking that there was nothing left to do but take a look at the offending letters, Harry reached under his pillow and retrieved the now slightly rumpled stack. He quickly separated the two from Hermione and opened one at random.

_'Harry,_

_I know what must be going on in your mind right now. Believe me, I understand. You should also know that we're friends and I wouldn't want that to change for the world. Please respond. We'll be in school with each other for the next six years, I certainly wouldn't want there to be any awkwardness between us._

_I know Ron's invited you to stay with him this summer. You should accept. There's no reason something between us should affect his friendship with you. I'm sure you'll have a good time and I'll see you both on the train in September._

_I hope you have a happy birthday and a pleasant summer._

_Hermione'_

This must have been the second letter of the – now three – that she had sent and Harry thought he knew what had happened. She and Ron must have had a fight. No doubt she'd think that Ron had told him all about it and now she thought that his silence was him being worried that he would feel like he'd have to choose one side or the other.

This was Hermione was giving him an out, Harry decided. She was choosing to keep the fight strictly between herself and Ron, saying that she knew how he'd be feeling but didn't want him to feel like he had to choose. She even wanted him to go through with Ron's plan, meaning she's okay with them being friends and _'wouldn't want there to be any awkwardness,'_ even if, by the sound of the ending, that she didn't plan to see or hear from them again all summer. Though he supposed her mentioning meeting up with them on the train said that she held out hope for reconciliation.

If there _had_ been a fight, and his continued silence had pushed them together again out of worry, that would explain why she told him not to bother with the letters, Harry reasoned. If the fight was already over then of course she wouldn't want to risk ruining his summer telling him that it happened in the first place.

Harry didn't think it would've ended that quickly and easily though. The troll incident last year showed that Hermione'd forgive you in a second if you showed even a hint that you knew that you were wrong. You didn't even have to say the words. Ron, however, was a lot more stubborn about it. His reluctance even to look for her that Halloween, after his name–calling had sent her into that bathroom crying, told him that without a troll looming over you it'd take a long, drawn–out battle of wills to get Ron to even give that hint and he doubted the silence coming from Privet Drive counted for much.

That left two letters from Ron, one from Hermione, Harry reckoned. One from both to tell him their side of the fight – Hermione's telling him not to worry and Ron's inviting him to stay and join his side – and one from Ron to tell him to forget the fight and to come over anyway.

Hoping for a breath of fresh air, Harry read the letter from Hagrid instead.

_'Harry,_

_Ron and Hermione are sayin that yer not answerin any of their letters. Don need me nocking down any doors now, do ya? Let'em know yer alright or if'n you need me ta pay those Dursleys a visit. 'Ermione's goin' mad with worry. Hope ya have a Happy Birthday. If'n I don hear from you by tha end o' August, expect a very big bang on yer fron' door come the First._

_Hagrid_

_P.S. Had som'thin for ya but it looks like it et thru its cage. I'll see if I can find you another'n. Happy Birthday!'_

While he was sorry that Hagrid had been pulled into any drama Dobby had caused, Harry was glad he was taking it so well. The image of Hagrid showing up on Privet Drive on the back of Fluffy, his giant three–headed dog, with another baby dragon under his arm, and knocking down his door to rescue him from his beastly relatives certainly put a smile on Harry's face. It was probably for the best though that his present had made a break for freedom because after seeing what kind of pets Hagrid thought acceptable Harry had no intention of meeting of the sort any time soon.

He'd definitely have to send Hedwig out with a letter thanking him for the offer, and to tell him that he really didn't have to get him anything for his birthday. _Especially something that could eat through a cage,_ Harry thought.

If Hagrid could put a smile on his face after the summer he's had, Harry knew that the loveable giant could certainly help smooth out whatever disagreement Ron and Hermione may have had – and had probably already done so. Again, he didn't mention a fight, but since it was a birthday letter it's doubtful Hagrid would've wanted to dampen his spirit by mentioning it.

Harry was beginning to wonder if there ever had been a fight at all. But if there hadn't, what had Hermione's second _better–to–bin–them_ letter been about? Halfway through his letters it was a simple thing that tipped the scales: Ron's letters were thin while Hermione's was thicker than both of Ron's combined.

Deciding to save the longest for last, Harry opened Ron's first letter.

_'Hiya Harry,_

_Can you believe we've got almost three whole months without Malfoy and Snape? I never thought I'd be so glad to be back here in all my life!_

_Still, it'd be better if you were here though. It can get pretty dull just doing chores and having your little sister ask a thousand and one questions a day about what you're really like. I just tell her to go to her room and read her stupid books. Hopefully she'll get as bad as Percy; he's shut up in his room alone for hours now, not that I'm complaining._

_I swear though, half my family's getting as bad as Hermione. Did you know she's already studying for next year? I mean, we can't do magic and haven't even got our books yet! What do you think of her? Bloody mental, I say._

_Well, Errol looks fit enough to fly again so I guess I should wrap this up. Dad's fine with you coming to stay with us but doesn't know when he can swing a trip to the muggles to get you. I'll keep hounding him though. Hopefully we'll get you here in time for your birthday._

_Ron'_

It was nice to think about Ron's family wanting him there for his birthday, especially since he hadn't even met half of them yet. He was having some serious doubts about his fight theory now though. Sure, Ron's against studying when he doesn't have to but Harry doubted things would've escalated enough to be called a fight over it, let alone result in any "awkwardness," as Hermione put it.

He hoped Ron's next letter would help clear things up.

_'Hiya Harry,_

_Don't know if you got my first letter or not. Errol looked more tuckered out than usual when he got back and it wouldn't be the first time the old coot dropped a letter. When I told her you hadn't wrote back Hermione said she sent you one too. Maybe that's why Errol looks dead. Does Hermione even have an owl?_

_Can you believe she's already onto us about our homework? We've got two whole months left! I said it before, mate, she's bloody mental. Nosy is what she is. What do you think, and what'd she say to you anyway?_

_I let slip that you hadn't had a proper birthday so now Mum's all on board for having you around before then if we can swing it. Dad's been bogged down at work a lot so who knows when they'd find the time. Fred and George said we should just steal the car and fly there ourselves and if we miss your birthday we might just have to do that._

_Anyway, hope to see you soon and don't do any more work than you have to!_

_Ron'_

This letter did more to damage his fight theory than anything else. Sure, Ron seemed a bit more agitated about being prodded into studying, but that might've just been for something to say or get a response. Calling Hermione _bloody mental_ and _nosy_ certainly wasn't the way to keep a friendship going though.

Harry also didn't think Ron had any ground to stand on to call anyone nosy since he then tried to find out what Hermione had said to him in the first place. He doubted Ron had ever heard the phrase "pot calling the kettle black" but reckoned if he threw in 'cauldron' for 'kettle' he'd get the gist.

His theory now horribly strained, Harry opened the last letter, hoping he hadn't built this whole thing up over nothing.

_'Dear Harry,'_ Hermione started. _'I hope your summer's going well. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to talk my parents into stopping by Diagon Alley on our way out of London so I'm afraid it's going to be a very long ten weeks for me until school starts back.'_

Harry actually smiled at that. Leave it to Hermione to think that ten whole weeks without a new book to be the definition of a grueling summer.

_'Luckily there's always homework,'_ she continued. _'I've also taken the liberty to write professors McGonagall and Flitwick asking if there was anything I could do in the meantime to prepare for next year. Hopefully they'll write back with something, though hoping they respond with copies of the relevant texts would probably be too much to ask.'_

Harry had to cover his mouth for fear that any escaping laughter would draw the Dursleys down on him like a pack of hungry hippos. He wouldn't put it past Hermione to try and set up some sort of owl delivery summer check–out program for the library as soon as she got back, just to make sure this never happened again. _A book a day's just an owl away!_ Harry thought humorously.

_'Perhaps you could use this opportunity to _actually do_ the History of Magic reading you were supposed to this year? That was a joke, by the way. It'd be nice to think you would but I don't honestly expect you to do that. I'm not sure Ron gets that there _are_ times when I'm somewhat less than completely serious.'_

_'Speaking of vexing concerns,'_ Harry could almost see her eyes rolling and lips thinning in frustration here, _'there's been an issue weighing on me that I hesitate to bring up.'_

Harry sat up in his chair. He had been right after all it seemed; there wasn't just "basic stuff" here.

_'I tried addressing it while you were still in the Hospital Wing but that led to a rather awkward conversation with Ron. I know that I shouldn't have given the conversation we just had, but under the circumstances I really didn't have anywhere else to turn, so I asked him to ask you about it. I don't know whether he has or not but it's time to pluck up that Gryffindor courage I'm supposed to have and simply do it myself. I apologize in advance if I start to ramble or go on tangents, it's not often I write without a concrete outline.'_

Harry smiled and shook his head.

_' I suppose it all started during those three days you were in the hospital wing – I'm so sorry, by the way, I never should have left you to face You–Know–Who alone. As soon as I saw Professor Dumbledore I _knew_ that Snape would have made those potion bottles refill themselves somehow. How else was that trap supposed to work an indeterminate number of times, let alone let Professor Dumbledore pass through after you had?'_

She had a really good point there; Harry had to give her that. How could they have missed it? Then again, they were more concerned with Ron being knocked unconscious and the possibility of Harry's own imminent death to really give the matter much thought at the time.

_'I suppose it'd be more precise to say that it started last Halloween, and that I had only _realized_ what was happening later on. You see, all my life I've been driven to prove to myself __**and others–**__,'_ she added in a nasty scrawl, nearly tearing the parchment with the force she used. _'–that I'm good enough._

_You didn't just save my life that night, Harry, you changed it. Before then, I never really had a friend. I never really saw the point in them besides having someone to review with. Even then no study buddy I had ever seemed to be able to do that for very long before wanting to run off and play and I always had far too much to do to let myself join them._

_That's what you did that night. I don't know if it was the shock of almost dying or the fact that you jumped ten feet in the air just to get the troll away from me, but whatever it was you became the one person in the entire castle that I was comfortable with. I didn't have to push myself to learn everything right now. I still studied, but that was to show snots like Malfoy that they weren't better than everyone just because of an accident of birth._

_For the first time though I had people around me I liked, people who liked me, and I was able to just give time to myself too. I read what I was interested in, not just to supplement what we learned in class, and even went out with the rest of the House to watch you play Quidditch. I'll never get how the game's supposed to be competitive when catching one ball is enough to score as many points as fifteen goals combined, but while I'm watching I found that I don't care!_

_This last year has been an amazing one for me, and it all started that night. I'm just now starting to see a completely different route that my life could take, one where I could do things for myself – not just because they're expected of me. All of those possibilities came crashing down when I left you to face You–Know–Who alone._

_It was only then that I realized just how central a figure you had become for me. I know it sounds corny but I honestly couldn't imagine what my life would be like without you. It certainly wouldn't be anything good. I also realized just how little I actually knew about you. I guess what I'm saying – in a roundabout way – is that you've really impressed me, Harry, and I would like to get to know you better. Whether that evolves into something more later on – would certainly be a possibility worth looking into._

_Always Yours, Hermione'_

_Well_, Harry thought as his face began turning a brilliant shade of Gryffindor red. _That certainly wasn't about a fight._

Harry sat at his desk, mind was reeling from what he had just learned as a new day's sun started to peek over the horizon. Hermione liked him. _Hermione_ liked him. Hermione liked _him_. Hermione _liked_ him. _Hermione_ liked _him_.

It didn't seem to add up. No one had ever liked him before. Well, a couple of girls had shown concern when he had first gotten beat up by Dudley at school but when his cousin had turned on them they quickly learned it was best not to be involved. Certainly no one had ever _liked him_ liked him.

_Hermione liked him_. Harry was really at a loss. How do you respond to something like that? He certainly couldn't ask the Dursleys for advice, they'd simply shout _"We don't need any more freaks!"_ and lock him back in the cupboard under the stairs for the rest of his life.

What he really needed was someone he could talk to about it – someone, preferably, who already knew because he certainly wasn't looking forward to explaining it. Suddenly he remembered: _Ron_ knew. Hermione had said he knew; said she had talked to him about it. Harry pulled out Ron's letters and quickly scanned them again.

It was right there, in both letters, when he was talking about Hermione: _'what do you think of her?'_ That Ron had asked _him_ what _he_ thought of Hermione rather than _telling him_ that Hermione had said she liked him struck Harry as a bit odd. _Then again_, Harry thought, _Hermione did ask Ron to_ ask him _about it_. _Maybe what she asked was for him to find out what I thought of her?_

Ron certainly could've done it better. Harry hadn't thought he had been asking it to try and get an actual answer. Why else would he have put in how _'bloody mental'_ and _'nosy'_ he thought she was? It certainly looked like Ron was against the idea of getting to know Hermione any better. Heck, Ron was probably regretting knowing her as much as they already did with all his complaining about her encouraging them to do their homework.

_Of course she'd want us to do our work,_ Harry reckoned. _Hermione said she had always pushed herself; obviously she'd want anyone close to her to do well._ Harry felt the heat rise on his face again. Of course she'd want _him_ to do well since she _wanted to get to know him better_.

Harry didn't know what he thought about that. Sure, he thought his History of Magic textbook had been fascinating, but that was before getting stuck in a room and bored to death by a long–dead ghost. Potions was a good deal like cooking, which he was good at and didn't mind, but it was difficult to even get through the class with Snape sniping at him for simply _existing_.

Herbology reminded him of being forced to do all the Dursleys' gardening far too much for it to be enjoyable. Transfiguration was interesting, but _taxing_. An hour of that and he was glad of any excuse to think of something else for a good long while. Charms was always good for a diversion though the less said about Astronomy the better. It was always too cold, too cloudy, and too hard to stay awake. What did knowing the names of stars have anything to do with magic anyway? And couldn't they learn all that from studying maps during the daytime?

Flying had been thrilling but you really couldn't call that a proper class. It was only held a few times – until they were sure you could mount a broom without killing yourself – and with him being tapped for the Gryffindor Quidditch team straight away he had only gone the one time. Harry wondered if Hermione had been forced to go to all four sessions or if she had simply refused to go again. She didn't seem the type to trust her life to something as wobbly as an old school broom.

Defense had been fun, even funny with Quirrell's timidness and stutter. Both of those had been lies, of course, and he couldn't really say they had learned anything that important, much less how to defend themselves. Then again, having Lord Voldemort growing out of the back of the professor's head probably went a long way to explaining that. It seemed strange to him that the worst thing about Hogwarts, aside from the potential to be killed, were bad teachers that discouraged you from learning anything useful.

Harry knew he was waffling. The issue wasn't what he thought about classes, it was what he thought about _her_. Hermione was… well, Hermione. She was a friend. She was nice to be around. She was – then it clicked. She was someone he was comfortable with. Ron was a friend too, but with him he always felt like there was a whole host of things he was missing out on, so much that he didn't know.

With Hermione, it was like they were the same. Two kids, straight from the muggle world, who didn't have a clue that magic existed and now they're thrown into a completely different world and having to face things on their own. _They_ were learning everything at the same time, it was _new_ to them, while with Ron – with Ron it was old hat; he and his brothers had grown up knowing about trolls and goblins and giants and dragons, so how could any of that be interesting?

Harry felt his mind take a sharp left turn. _Was that why Ron didn't care about studying?_ Harry wondered. _Had he lived in the wizarding world so long that he already gets the gist of it and didn't see the need to learn anything more about it?_ Looking at his own life Harry could see how the same really applied to him. He had grown up in the muggle world and knew about electricity, airplanes, football, and television but couldn't begin to explain _how_ they worked or _why_ they worked. Moreover, he would be hard pressed to care about figuring any of that out.

He definitely needed to pay more attention to his schoolwork, Harry decided. If he was going to be leaving the Dursleys and the muggle world behind then he had to learn everything he could about the wizarding one. Treating it like it didn't matter would only leave him with the worst of both. He'd have a head full of stuff from one world that wasn't going to help him and the attitude that he didn't need to know anything about things worked now. He might as well open his vault at Gringotts and shout _"please take advantage of me!"_

_Waffling again,_ Harry thought. _This is about Hermione._

Hermione was, Harry reckoned, the one bit of normalcy at Hogwarts. He almost recoiled at the thought. _Normal isn't bad,_ Harry reminded himself._ It's the_ Dursleys _who are abnormal with their obsession with being normal._ Ron, Fred, and George were certainly normal guys, as far as Harry could tell; normal for the wizarding world that is, but Hermione – she was his kind of normal.

He hadn't realized it until now, but he had found it comforting to know that there was someone else there that had been through everything he'd been through, who knew all the stuff he knew, and _didn't_ know all the stuff _he_ didn't know. She was like a portable little island of calm when he's facing something new.

_Well_, Harry thought, _she was more like that stony spit of rock with the storm beating down on us that Uncle Vernon had dragged us to last year when it came to exams–_ but he figured that there were limits to what even magic could do for that. She seemed to be willing to try though. She wanted to get to know him – and presumably for him to get to know her, and even seemed to be up for a bit of _fun_, if her bit about Quidditch and taking time for herself was to be believed.

He smiled. She wanted to get to know him – just him; just Harry – not the Boy–Who–Lived. He was sure that Hermione knew more than he did about pretty much everything, and he was sure that there had to be loads of differences between them, but with everyone else only seeing him as a _scar_ how could he not give it a try?

Suddenly Harry got a sinking sense of dread and pulled out her second letter._ 'I know what must be going on in your mind,'_ she wrote._ 'I understand… We're friends and I wouldn't want that to change – Please respond. I certainly wouldn't want there to be any awkwardness between us.'_

He was going to say no and didn't want to. Or, at least she took his silence as him not wanting to say no and therefore wasn't saying anything at all. _And really,_ Harry thought, _how else was she supposed to take getting nothing but silence after sending a letter like that?_ It had to take a lot to tell someone what they meant to your life, but to then be left hanging out there for weeks…

Harry also noticed that he had gone from _'Dear Harry'_ to just_ 'Harry'_ and she had gone from _'Always Yours'_ to simply_ 'Hermione.'_ He couldn't imagine what it took for her to write that first letter, but to write him _again_ saying that it was okay that he didn't like her back – _Certainly makes my summer seem pleasant by comparison,_ Harry thought.

He picked up the letter she had sent tonight. _That definitely explains why she tried to stop me from reading it,_ Harry reckoned. She had already gone through the agony of him not–saying no, only to learn that he had never got the chance to not–say no in the first place. _No wonder she said it was all 'basic stuff,'_ Harry thought. _She didn't want to have to go through all that again – for real this time. She didn't want to risk not being 'Your Friend, Hermione.'_

_Like that would ever happen_, he answered himself. If Harry didn't already know how he was going to respond – even if he didn't have a clue what he was going to say – this would have cinched it.

Harry was half way to his trunk for parchment when the door to his bedroom took a mighty lurch forward and came to an abrupt stop. He bolted back to his desk and scrambled to get everything stashed safely out of sight.

"What the devil is wrong with this door?" his Aunt Petunia demanded quietly.

Harry peeked curiously through the tiny crack in his defenses. "Er – Sorry, Aunt Petunia," he lied, not sorry in the slightest. "Must not have been watching where I threw my clothes last night."

"Yes, well – pick them up," she said acidly. "And get downstairs and start on breakfast. And be quiet," she hissed, "Dudley and Vernon are having a bit of a lie–in."

He closed the door to get ready for the day as Aunt Petunia padded away. _Dudley and Vernon are always having a lie–in,_ Harry thought to himself. _That's half the reason they got so fat._

As he reached the kitchen Harry knew what he was making today. For once he didn't care what the Dursleys wanted. Today, he was making waffles.

.o0O0o.

**AN:** Since one person's already pointed it out, I know there's no such thing as the Surrey Mall, that was supposed to be a subtle clue that things weren't what they seemed to be.

Thanks for reading.


	3. Banging Along

**AN:** There's a fair bit of wordplay in this chapter which may strike some people as odd. If you think of it though, with only one newspaper, one wireless station, and a handful of highly targeted magazines – they're going to have to come up with some way to entertain themselves.

.o0O0o.

Saturday breakfast at the Dursleys' was its usual long affair, made more so by it being served in bed to the two whales in residence. Second and third helpings, all lovingly carried up to them by a gushing Aunt Petunia, left them mostly out of sight and even helped him grab some bit of it to eat himself while his aunt was away. It was well into morning when all the plates had been washed, dried, and put back into their proper places – all by Harry, of course.

With Uncle Vernon taking Dudley out for a new video game – in payment for his stellar performance in boot–licking the night before – Harry hoped that being run ragged the day before would provide him some time to himself so he could start writing his replies. His aunt seemed to have different plans for him though.

"Since you're done you can stop lazing about," the horse–faced woman started. "Go upstairs, get your things, and start a load of laundry. Then take out the trash and make yourself scarce. I don't want to see you until it's done."

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," Harry gave his rote response as he made his way back to his room.

For the second time in as many days Harry opened his door to find something waiting on him. A large, disgruntled–looking black owl stood imperiously at his open window. It called to him loudly, as if offended that it had been kept waiting.

"And keep that bird quiet!" his Aunt Petunia called up after him.

"Sorry about that," Harry told the owl, closing the door behind him. "I wasn't expecting any more mail."

Relieved of its burden the beast started nipping at the drawer he had stashed everything in earlier.

"You want an owl treat? Hang on, I'll get you something."

Harry dug out the bag he kept his wizarding money in. He had always kept something for Hedwig in there too. Letting the bird root through and take its fill Harry concentrated on his letter. The owl soon departed with its prize: it had a solid silver sickle clutched in its beak.

_Leave it to a bank to charge me postage,_ Harry grumbled in his head.

_'To: Account–Holder H. J. Potter_

_Re: Your Inquiry_

_Thank you for contacting Gringotts Wizarding Bank, Diagon Alley. Your letter has been quite informative and brought forward many issues worthy of discussion. Your hereditary account is currently in the charge of F.M. Gropegold. His practice is to arrive for work shortly after 10 o'clock. Upon a preliminary review it appears that the first of August is a very important time for your account and would suggest seeing your Financial Manager immediately upon his entry._

_Due to strictures placed upon us by the Ministry, we are unable to provide non–employee human transport. I am reliably informed that emergency wizarding transport already exists in the form of the Knight Bus and that casting forth your wand from any street curb should summon the vehicle to you. Please note that they do not accept cheques or promises of payment._

_Gringotts looks forward to your visit,_

_Account Overseer Barchoke'_

Not sure _how_ today was supposed to be important, Harry wondered if he could really do it. _Could I really slip away?_

"Laundry! _Now!"_ his aunt bellowed from below.

Harry's mind was made up. He was going. Today. _Now_.

He crammed the letter into his money pouch and crammed that in his pocket. Out from the drawer came his letters and things and quick as a flash they were tossed into his trunk. The trunk itself was another huge problem. Getting the trunk out of the house without his Aunt Petunia noticing was going to be impossible, even without his broom slung over his shoulder, and unless he happened to stumble into the Weasleys in the middle of Diagon Alley it'd be pointless to even try.

As much as he _hated_ it, Harry knew he'd have to come back.

A few more moments had his wand, Hogwarts robes, and his dad's old invisibility cloak retrieved. Thinking for a moment, Harry removed Hedwig's cage and his Nimbus 2000 from the wardrobe and set them on top of the trunk, carefully arranging the cloak to cover everything.

With his wand up his sleeve, money in his pocket, and Hogwarts robes stuffed unceremoniously into his bulging hand–me–downs, Harry scraped together whatever bits of laundry he had and was out of his room before his aunt could bellow again.

"Hop to it, before I think of something else for you to do," his aunt said as Harry made his way back downstairs. "And don't forget the trash."

Throwing his odds and ends in the wash with a splash of detergent and hitting the button, Harry made his way to the kitchen, glad to have some legitimate reason to go outside. As soon as he was out the back door the trash was dropped and he bolted for the back hedge. Aiming for the well–worn passage Dudley and his gang had made years before, Harry found himself in the alleyway beyond. Turning left, he made his way towards Magnolia Crescent, the nearest side street he could get to that was out of sight of Privet Drive.

There was a thrill of excitement in the air as he stole a glance around to make sure he couldn't be seen. He couldn't believe he was doing this. Harry took out his Gringotts letter to check what he had to do. _'Casting forth your wand from any street curb should summon the vehicle to you.'_ Hoping there wasn't some special incantation he was supposed to do Harry took out his wand and pointed it towards the street.

With a bang like a canon blast a giant purple triple–decker bus exploded into view as Harry leapt back in surprise. Harry saw some disheveled faces peek out of the bus windows to see where they had landed. In no time at all a pimply young man jumped out and recited his company line.

"Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. I'm Stan Shunpike and I'll be your conductor for this eav–morning."

"You're real," Harry said, still in awe of the giant magical bus in the heart of muggle Surrey.

"Last time I checked," the young man said with a grin. "You gettin' in or not?"

"Absolutely!"

"Well, hop in then," Stan gestured to the door beside him.

If the outside had been impressive the inside was even more bizarre. Large chintz chairs in various patterns were strewn about in no particular order and several witches and wizards looked to be picking up their shopping where it had fallen when they stopped. One old wizard looked to be… wet.

The door closed and the young man grabbed a shiny silver hand–hold.

"Take 'er away, Ern."

Bang! Harry found himself thrown back into the crush of chintz chairs. Seeking safety in one of them Harry pulled his feet and legs up away from the rampaging recliners.

The young man named Stan made his way over.

"So where'bouts choo headed?"

"Gringotts," a breathless Harry said.

"Leaky Cauldron close enough?" Stan asked as another bang had them rambling down a distant country lane. Stan slightly swayed.

"Perfect," Harry replied.

"'Leven sickles ter get 'choo there," Stan said, seemingly unaware of the bus's turbulence. "Firteen gets you 'ot choc'let. No, wait," he corrected himself. "That's only at nigh'. By day it's tea."

Glancing at the wet wizard from before, who now had a greenish twinge to him as he swayed back and forth, Harry decided against the tea and handed over the lesser amount.

"You have a loo?" Harry asked, feeling the lump of his Hogwarts robes behind him.

"In the back," Stan replied, handing Harry his ticket.

"Thanks."

Keeping a firm hand on anything remotely stable, Harry stumbled his way to the back of the bus where he found the lavatory blessedly empty. It was ten turbulent minutes before Harry had his robes on properly and he considered just ditching his hand–me–downs until he thought of trying to explain to the Dursleys why he was wearing robes when he got back there.

Blessedly soon – though not soon enough to save him from more bumps and bruises – Stan was calling out their arrival at the Leaky Cauldron. It was on wobbly legs that Harry found himself in front of the grimy London pub.

"Righ' then, be good," Stan called before the giant purple passage to paralyzation banged its way off again.

"Is it always like that?" Harry asked the green–tinted wizard that had gotten off when he did.

"Better than Apparition," was all the man said as he wobbled his way indoors.

The wizarding world, Harry decided, was insane. _But at least they're not the Dursleys,_ he added as an afterthought.

The Leaky Cauldron was as dark and dingy as ever and Harry wondered if they ever cleaned. The hunch–backed gap–toothed barman smiled his way over, pointing at Harry's school robes.

"Bit early for that, innit?"

"Better early than late," Harry said embarrassed, wishing he had thought to hide his Gryffindor crest before entering for all the attention he was getting. _At least it's better than looking like a deflated rhinoceros,_ he reminded himself.

"Think I could go through?" he asked, pointing towards the back.

"Sure thing," the barman smiled. "This way."

Soon enough the back wall was opened and he was in Diagon Alley proper. _Made it with time to spare,_ Harry thought glancing at his watch to find it just past nine.

The feeling from his dream the night before returned and a smile crept onto his face. He had almost an hour before he had to go to Gringotts and he still had money in his pocket. There might not be an arcade or a three–story fountain but there were no screaming Dobbys in the windows either. This wasn't an opportunity Harry was going to waste.

The small shop directly to his right had a large wooden shoe over a sign saying Cadogans Cordwainery. Deciding anything was better than another day in Dudley's peeling leftovers Harry stepped inside.

He had been expecting to see rows upon rows of shelves, filled to the brim with every sort of shoe imaginable, what he found was a small, balding mustachioed man dozing in a chair and footprints on the wall. The smell of leather hung heavy over everything.

"Come in, come in!" the man cried now cheerily awake. "We're open."

"Er – You sell shoes?" Harry asked, uncertain he had interpreted the sign correctly.

"We _make_ shoes," the man replied hustling Harry over to the chair. "Cooper Cadogan of Cadogan's Cordwainery. The finest footwear money can buy, lovingly crafted by masters of the trade. Come wrap your feet in Adadan leather from Argentina or Mungohide from Ouagadougou and you'll wonder how you ever walked without it."

"Of course," the man said with a twinkle in his eye, "young men like yourself are always looking for a bit of flash. We've also got a nice young dragonhide straight from the Romanian wilds."

"Er–," Harry said uncertainly. He certainly didn't want to run into Hagrid while wearing a pair of Norbert–skin shoes.

"I have to warn you though, they aren't cheap. The best Adadan goes for seventeen – but since it's you I'll let it go for twelve."

Harry had the distinct impression he meant twelve gold galleons, which was more than his wand cost. _It would be the most expensive thing I had ever bought,_ Harry realized, but then he thought–

"Why not?" _It was only one galleon for every year I've been alive,_ Harry reckoned. _Happy Birthday to me._

"That's the ticket," Mr. Cadogan said with a smile as Harry fished out the money.

"Customer!" the man called and two knobby–kneed creatures wrapped in towels came shuffling out of a back room.

"You have house–elves?" Harry asked.

"Oh yes. Ungo's and his family have been serving the shop for – How long's it been? Two hundred years?" the man asked the elf.

"Three," the older elf croaked in his bullfrog voice, holding up four fingers as the younger one removed Harry's trainers and traced his feet onto parchment.

"Three hundred, bless'em! Good thing they're here too," he said to Harry. "Finding good leather is where I've got it laced up but I'm _pants_ when it comes to shoes," Cadogan said with a wink.

"And do you like working here?" Harry asked them.

"Best boots to buy," Ungo grunted with what Harry thought was a hint of pride.

"Boots or shoes?" the younger elf asked Ungo.

"Boots or shoes?" Ungo asked Cadogan.

"Boots or shoes?" Cadogan asked Harry.

"B–_Shoes_ will be fine," Harry told the elves.

"Had Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, in here for a nice pair of shoes the other day," Cadogan said as he sat on a short stool and Ungo and his friend went to work. "Bowler–hat green he wanted them. Charged him extra 'cause he's an idiot. That's him there." Cadogan pointed to a pair of tiny footprints on the wall.

"Color?" Ungo asked.

"Er– Black," Harry said.

"Had that author fellow too, what was his name? Lockhead, Lockheed – Lock–something," the shopkeeper said with a wave. "Lock up your daughters around that one. If anything, he was _worse_. Dimmer than a two year old's _lumos_."

"A what?" Harry asked.

"Little light spell," Cadogan explained pulling out his wand and igniting the tip. He waved it around like a flashlight before extinguishing it with a _nox_.

"Don't bother looking for him up there," he waved at the wall. "Wouldn't have him there if he paid me – and he _did_," Cadogan joked. "If anything he put in his books _actually happened_ I'll eat his boots. Lilac indeed."

"Speaking of–" Cadogan said, buoyed back into positive spirits once more. "Used to have your headmaster, Dumbledore, come in for boots 'til about ten years ago," Cadogan continued, pointing to a long pair of feet on the wall by Fudge.

"Guess he reckoned he was over a hundred and wouldn't be living too much longer and stopped. Pity, that. He was always good for a sale. High–heeled, pointed–toed, any color of the rainbow. You name it, he bought it. Never saw an outfit he disliked; always had to match. _Hated_ to see him go.

"There's one of your Hogwarts types I really want to get," the large man said conspiratorially. "Professor Snape. Now, now–" he said when Harry recoiled. "Just because he's more curdled than putrefied potion doesn't mean the man can't do with a nice pair of shoes. Always thought his must be pinching something awful to be as bad as he is. Do the world a world of good to get him in that chair."

Harry smiled, more at the man's easy manner and simple solutions than the thought of an extra spring in Snape's step.

"I was curious," Harry said hoping to guide the conversation to more relevant topics. "How did your family come by your elves?"

"Oh, you know how it is," Cadogan said with a wave. "Family on the way down, selling anything they can afford to lose – then everything they can't – to those with a bit of coin to spare. Has to be the best thing my family's ever done to take them in," he finished with a smile to the elves.

"I heard some are downright nasty to their elves," Harry said neutrally.

Cadogan pulled a face.

"They'd be a twisted sort to be mean to an elf. They're _family_," the man replied. "I grew up with Ungo here. My kids grew up with his–"

The younger elf waved a hammer at Harry before returning to work.

"The only one who'd ever be mean to an elf is one who doesn't know what a proper family is," Cadogan finished.

"My brother," the man began again, back in his chipper tone, "he's got a couple of Ungo's kids with him – turns out they were all thumbs when it came to shoes–"

Harry saw Ungo shake his head sadly.

"–So Carl took those two with him to break into the elf–made wine market. Guess he hopes those thumbs are _green_, eh?"

And with that the conversation was back on its whirlwind tour of topics. Harry didn't mind, he found it a very easy way to spend the time. Not having to add anything to the conversation gave him a very interesting look at the wizarding world. No one ever thought about the man who made their shoes let alone what he thought of things.

Just as Harry was beginning to get nervous about the time, Ungo and his son – who Harry had learned was named Mungo after the animal hide they used – which in turn was named for a wizarding explorer relative of some famous healer – presented Cadogan with their finished work.

"Oh, well look at that! My how time flies," Cadogan cried.

After a bit of prodding from the shop owner's wand, each shoe was declared ready for wear.

"You wrap your feet in these," he said, "and tell me you've felt the like."

Harry's feet were in heaven. They had died, gone to heaven, and were never coming back. It was like he had stuck his feet into a warm stiff pudding. The only word he could think to describe how it felt was _supple_.

"That's the black Adadan they went with for the outside, sole looked to be Mungo. Charmed to reduce wear and any sort of smell. Should do you fine in rain or snow, plenty of grip – just don't go swimming in them. Well, what do you think?" he prompted.

"They're the best shoes I've ever had," Harry said honestly.

"Splendid," Cadogan smiled. "You want me to do for these?" he asked, gesturing to the remains of Harry's trainers with his wand.

"Er– No, better not," Harry said. "You got anything I can take them in?"

With a look that said Harry was crazier for taking them than he would be to blast them to bits, he produced a nondescript box to hide them in.

"Now," a smiling Cadogan said, presenting Harry with a quill and the outline of his own feet. "Sign here please."

A quick _Harry Potter_ later and his parchment was given pride of place on Cadogan's Wall of Fashionable Feet, between Dumbledore and Fudge. Harry thought if Cadogan ever managed to trip Snape into his chair for an hour at least he'd be in good company if the potions master ever tried to taunt him about it later.

With no less than _three_ invites back should he ever have the need Harry found himself back out in the main alley throng, though his feet certainly felt the difference. Different certainly seemed the apt description for him today as every other eye in the alley darted back to get a second look at his robes. In his haste to blend in it seemed he picked the one thing sure to draw everyone's attention.

It was just then that Harry began to appreciate just how omnipresent Hogwarts was in his new world. _No wonder these people can spot a rogue robe the length of the alley,_ Harry thought. _They'd all been there too._

Spotting the shop he was sure he had gotten the robes at in the first place – a place called Malkins – Harry angled his way over.

"Sorry," Harry said to the ladies inside as he checked his watch, "but I don't have a lot of time. Do you think you could do something so I don't look like I just escaped from school?"

"Oh dear," the lady he recognized from last year said. "You certainly are _out of time_, aren't you? You realize it's summer? I'll sort you out," she chuckled.

A few waves of Madam Malkin's wand had the Gryffindor crest gone, the tie a nice deep green, and she even added an inch or so of length to where Harry had grown since his last visit.

"There you go," Madam Malkin smiled. "Now off you go before I change my mind and charge you," she said with a shooing motion.

"Lasts the day," her curly–haired assistant called. "For any more you stay and pay."

"Oh, that's a good one," Malkin said to her as she hustled Harry back to the door. "I'll have to remember that one later."

Now feeling pleasantly unremarkable Harry was able to finish his trip to the gleaming white bank, hitting the doors at five–past ten.

Even with the steady trickle of clients fueling the weekend shopping outside less than half of the teller stalls had a goblin manning them so that each one of them had a queue. One goblin he did note stood alone on the far side of the hall in a pin–striped suit. Hands clasped in front of him and bald head slowly swiveling, his eyes never resting anywhere for long. Harry immediately marked him out as some sort of manager. Making his way over, he pulled out his letter for reference.

"Excuse me," Harry said.

Instantly he was the focus of those appraising eyes. Harry was sure they took in everything from his disheveled hair and rumpled letter to the newness of his shoes.

"I was wondering if you tell me where I might find – er – F. M. Gropegold? I think I might have an appointment."

Whatever the goblin's appraisal was Harry must have passed for he smiled. It didn't reach its eyes.

"Financial Manager Gropegold just came in and should be available. Gringotts appreciates your timely visit, Mr. Potter. This way please," the goblin said and started towards a large bronze door without a backwards glance.

The door closed behind them, shutting out the sound of the bustling lobby, and Harry found himself in a hallway that ran the entire back length of the building, filled with doors to what must be very small offices.

"Gropegold's office is right down there," the goblin said, "third on the left from the end."

Harry turned to thank his guide only to find that the little man had vanished.

Feeling decidedly uncomfortable, Harry headed down the hallway. The slight rustle of his robes on the carpet was the only sound that disturbed the oppressive quiet.

Just as he reached the third door from the end another suited goblin – this one with long white hair – came bursting out of it. Harry had to jump back or be trampled.

"Make way, make way!" it said, hurrying down the hallway in a rush.

"Mr. Gropegold?" Harry asked.

"Too important to talk," the goblin cried with a wave of his hand.

"I'm Harry Potter," he called after the little man, "I think you work for me?"

Gropegold stopped and slowly turned, his beady eyes staring at him.

"Nice try," the goblin said with a smirk. "I don't know _how_ you got in here but I don't have time to deal with an imposter like you. Best be gone if you know what's good for you."

"But I _am_ Harry."

"I don't know _who_ you are, but I assure you, _no_ Harry Potter would ever be approaching _me_ for _anything_," Gropegold said definitively.

_This doesn't make any sense_, Harry thought.

Just then the door behind Gropegold opened and the bald goblin from before stepped out.

"What's all this noise?" he demanded.

"Overseer Barchoke!" Gropegold exclaimed, a new unctuous tone entering his voice. "What a pleasure to see you on this level, sir."

"Ah, Mr. Potter, a pleasure to have you," he said as Harry stepped closer. "What brings you to Gringotts?" the Overseer asked as if he hadn't just spoken to him minutes before.

Catching on to what his role was supposed to be here, Harry told the goblin what he already knew.

"I received a letter saying it was important for me to see Mr. Gropegold here today, but when I arrived he said he was _too important_ to talk to me."

"Really?" the Overseer asked, steely gaze shifting to the goblin in question. "Is that how Gringotts treats valued clients now?"

Gropegold gave the Overseer his falsest smile.

"You know how these little heirs are, sir. Always in a hurry to grow up, _always_ wanting money for something, _always_ thinking their wants the greatest thing in the world, _always_ wanting to take over the account before it's time–"

"And isn't it your duty to see to it that he's ready when that time comes?" Barchoke interrupted.

"A task I leave to his able guardian, sir. Little tyke must've given them the slip. I'll see him back where he belongs–"

"And where might that be?" Barchoke demanded. "Just who is this _able guardian_?"

"You know I can't divulge sensitive information, sir," Gropegold said in his stuffiest voice.

"I do," Barchoke smiled, a mere display of his pointed teeth. "I also know that it wasn't listed in his file or written on any of your transfer forms for today when I checked them last night."

"You–_you checked my files_?" the color drained from Gropegold's face.

A door across the hall opened on a goblin dressed in black and an old warlock with a face that looked hacked from an old stump. Whoever they were they certainly weren't who Gropegold expected to come out of that office as his eyes took on a distinctly panicked look.

"A cursory glance," the new goblin said, his red eyes alight. "A _thorough_ examination should find the answers we seek."

"Auditor Axegrind. Litigator Lichfield," Gropegold said breathlessly. "S–surely you don't think _I've_ done anything–. Su–surely some sort of _arrangement_ can be made here," he said to the group.

"Next he'll try paying us with our own gold," the wizened warlock said. The goblin in black nodded, his lip beginning to curl.

"How could we _not_ check your files," the Overseer asked, angling himself between Harry and his accountant. "Especially when Mr. Potter's most _curious_ letter arrived in the middle of an Overseer's meeting?"

"It seems," Auditor Axegrind said, taking up a position to flank the rogue accountant, "that young Mr. Potter was unaware whether he had any investments with us, and had _severe_ doubts as to whether or not you exist. Tell me, _citizen_ Gropegold–"

Gropegold's face turned ashen.

"–Do you bleed?"

The goblin turned and fled. Barely two steps down the hall the warlock struck, a flick of his wand had the panicked goblin suspended in midair by his ankle. Up and down the hall doors opened and goblins in scarlet and gold sprang out. Another flick had the former account manager land on his face hard, as the goblins swarmed.

"You can't do this to me!" the lone goblin cried.

"What we can and cannot do is based completely on your willingness to talk!" Barchoke shouted. "Take him away!"

Gropegold was hauled towards the far end of the hall, his panicked cries lingering far longer than he did.

"Auditor, _tear his office apart if you have to._ I want answers. Litigator, lock down the assets of his _entire_ extended family. _No one_ gets away until _I_ clear them."

"Yes, Overseer," they said in unison and moved off at once with practiced strides leaving Harry and the Overseer in the quiet hallway once more.

"Was there a point to that?" Harry asked incredulously once he had gotten over his shock.

"Forge fires are hot–" Barchoke said with a smile that actually reached his eyes. "–To burn away impurities. He'll be learning that – very soon."

"Come," Barchoke said, the word having a strangely friendly tone after what Harry just witnessed. "We'll see about getting you some answers."

.o0O0o.

**AN:** The Barchoke name is a nod to Robst and his work for it was he who finally got me to put the proverbial pen to paper. Similarities end there as our worlds are _vastly_ different.

I had no intention of writing a "Harry goes clothes shopping" scene; they're far too overused and never really accomplish anything. That's actually why I used the trope for that dream in chapter two. Of course once Cadogan started talking I found it hard to shut him up. I think he served the mood well in the end and I managed to slip in some interesting bits. And, if Harry's getting a new perspective on the wizarding world he might as well start at the sole and work his way up.

Thanks for reading.


	4. Bailiwick

**AN:** With a family line as long and well–established as the Potters are presumed to be in the wizarding world it's impossible to believe that _only_ his father's once–close friends could've provided Harry with such a valuable link to his past. It's a true literary sin that Rowling left the Potter family so undeveloped for even dead they could have provided Harry with a large part of his identity.

Warning: There's a fair bit of legalese ahead in the next couple of chapters.

.o0O0o.

Harry followed Overseer Barchoke back down the hall, the faint _whisk–whisk_ of his robes and a faint squeak with every other step the goblin took were the only sounds to be heard. He briefly wondered if the stillness of the hallway had been magically induced.

He was led to a small door directly across from the large bronze door he had first entered. The only thing that distinguished this door from any of the others was the noticeable lack of any handle. Only a tiny silver key–hole marred its smooth surface; it was placed at precisely the right height to make anyone not–a–goblin have to stoop uncomfortably to reach it.

A tiny silver key to match the tiny silver lock was attached to a tiny silver chain on the Overseer's belt. That produced and a simple turn to the right had the goblin motioning him to stand clear. A moment later the door shot open to reveal a room he'd be hard pressed to lie down in and no wider than the two of them abreast.

"After you," the goblin motioned him inside.

With nothing else to do, and confident that he was as confused as he could possibly be, Harry entered the cramped little closet. He wasn't sure if it was the claustrophobic closeness of the walls or something about their puke–green color but Harry was forcefully reminded of that wonky chocolate movie where some mad singing candy–maker crammed a load of tourists into a room like this only to take them back out the way they had come – only for them to find themselves somewhere else entirely.

He was wondering just how much of the magical world had bled its way over to the muggle one when the door closed, sealing them in. A small puke–green panel, invisible while the door had been open, sprang to life to the Overseer's right. After inserting his key into another tiny silver lock and pressing the button second to the top in a vertical row of five, the goblin gave out a warning.

"Hold on to something," he said as he closed the panel again.

Before Harry could even wonder what he was supposed to hold on to he felt the most disturbing thing in his life. He was turned upside down, right–side up, upside down, spun around, and corkscrewed halfway so he was right–side up again all in the split second before he could have the chance to fall.

For the first time Harry regretted not being deprived of breakfast. Feeling like his stomach was inside out and in his mouth had him regretting every bit of food he'd ever eaten. Slumped against the wall with his eyes closed helped fight the dizziness but it did nothing to put his stomach back where it belonged.

"You coming?" the goblin asked, now standing outside the little room again.

Harry made his way out of there before the flipping closet could do whatever it was that it did again. _At least now I know why it was painted puke–green_, he thought as he attempted to swallow his stomach.

The small antechamber Harry found himself in was nothing like the hallway he had left. He had trouble believing this was even the same building. The floors weren't covered in carpet to begin with; these were a dark gray marble tile. The walls were also marble, though they were a silver–gray. Also gone were the torches and metalwork, replaced by softly glowing orbs clutched in the claws of various stone dragons that seemed to be growing out of the walls.

Every surface he saw was polished so much that it shined. Everything was so immaculate that even the Dursleys would be tripping over themselves for the chance to eat off their floor. Harry heard the faint tinkling of water coming from somewhere which added to the cooler feeling of wherever he was and had a pleasantly soothing effect on his stomach.

"My office is this way, Mr. Potter," Barchoke said as he gestured to the hallway proper.

Harry was glad to hear their steps ring out properly when they walked and to see that there were actual signs of life on this level. Small groups of obviously senior goblins conversed amongst themselves, occasionally giving him a second glance. The hallway they were in opened up around a small indoor courtyard, at the center of which stood the fountain he had been hearing.

While it didn't spout water up three floors it certainly was a spectacle all its own. The statue at the fountain center was a dense dark granite. Rather than slowly sculpted or gradually grown out of the stone as all the other reliefs he'd seen had been, this one looked to have been hacked and beaten until the rough figure of what it was supposed to represent had started to take shape and then left unfinished as if the stone itself had committed some sort of crime.

The rough–cut and half–formed figure of a goblin was on its knees, face twisted in tragedy, water trickling from its eyes as it cried out in defeat while before it an exquisitely carved sword – the only part of the statue that resembled anything near the other finished works – was embedded into the statue's base, around its tip the splintered remains of a wand were depicted. At each corner stood a stone representation of a goblin's severed head, water trickling from nose, mouth, neck, or ears to simulate the crying goblin's ultimate fate. In severe gouges between them were carved phrases like 'Humbling the Halfwit,' 'Pride Before Fall,' and 'Thieves Turn Tides.'

The Overseer seemed strangely at home with the gruesome display as he didn't even remark on it as they passed. The other goblins didn't pay it any mind either as they walked between their offices, going in and out of various side hallways labeled such things as Confidential, Corporate, Personal, and Dodgy. His goblin guide took him down one such hallway. His was labeled Hereditary and would take them back towards the front of the building, unless Harry had been turned around completely.

The Overseer's office was at the very end of the hall. To say it was oddly shaped would be to put too fine a point on it since the whole room seemed to be built on odd angles. On either side of the door the walls flared out only to turn on a sharp right angle and head back in again. Rather than meeting at a precise point the walls – which were mostly windows – curved inward again so that the room's shape resembled a dulled misshapen spear point.

"Go on and take a look," the goblin said, gesturing to the windowpane that made up the room's rounded edge as the goblin himself went to root through some old cabinets on the room's right side. "Odds are you won't be seeing the inside of this office again."

Harry found that he had been right, they _were_ at the front of the building again, with the Overseer's office forming part of the wedge–shaped edge of the building as it thrust its way out into the street below and Diagon Alley split around it. The window itself did present a rather unique view of the tiny little ribbon that was wizarding London. With a good view of muggle London spread out beyond the alley's border, even seeing the comforting view of the tiny shops lost to time and the stream of witches and wizards going about their daily lives made for an unsettling combination.

In his mind Harry suddenly got the image of a colossus; feet planted wide in defiance, lord of all he surveyed, firmly rooted in both worlds and ready to take on all challengers. Having seen a tiny bit of the wizarding and muggle worlds, Harry wondered if this was the _goblin_ world he was looking at. He suddenly felt every inch the twelve year old boy that he was.

"Now," the goblin said, drawing Harry's attention back to the present. "Now that we've got a bit of privacy we don't have to stand so much on formality." He was sitting at a sturdy mahogany desk that took up almost the entirety of the room's left side and had one of those nice leather chairs that swiveled. Harry resisted the urge to ask how the little goblin's feet reached the floor to swivel it.

The most peculiar thing about the office wasn't the bizarre shape or disjointed view but the odd snow–globe that now sat amongst the Overseer's files and folders on his desk. Unlike any other snow globe Harry had ever seen this one didn't have a happy little village with glitter swirling around it but a fashionably–dressed olive–skinned couple dancing scandalously close to each other. It was very much like a television stuck inside a crystal ball only without any sound.

"Since this Investigation and Audit are the result of your Inquiry, that entitles you to what answers we have," the goblin started in a very business–like tone that had Harry thinking the Overseer was actually quite comfortable with formality.

"It is by no means a complete picture; we're actually hoping you might be able to fill us in on some of the important bits. Feel free to take a seat," the Overseer gestured to a pair of goblin–sized chairs that faced the rounded–end bank of windows, "this will probably take a while."

Harry pulled one of the tiny chairs closer to the desk and tried to make himself look comfortable.

"Gringotts corporate would like me to take this opportunity to express how shocked and appalled we are at the actions of your former account manager. While Gringotts assures you that there was no malice of forethought on its part it remains as committed as ever to guaranteeing the safety and security of your assets – in accordance with Ministry regulations, so on and so forth," the goblin finished with a wave.

The goblin seemed to suddenly get nervous as he shuffled his files.

"I suppose by way of an introduction to – shall we say Gringotts corporate culture – a bit of an explanation is in order as to why certain _irregularities_ had not been picked up until now."

"What irregularities?" Harry asked.

"The ones raised in your letter, as a matter of fact." The goblin took out a handkerchief and mopped its bald head, shooting glances at the door as if he'd been expecting help for this particularly uncomfortable conversation.

"Here at Gringotts, Mr. Potter–" and suddenly the goblin stopped. "–Or do you prefer to go by Harold?"

"Er– My name's Harold?" Harry asked poleaxed.

The Overseer's eyes whipped back down to the files it was used to dealing with, flipping a few pages in one until he found what he sought.

"Harold James Potter, born Saint Mungo's, July 31st, 1980 to James Charlus and Lillian Evans Potter?" the goblin recited.

"That's my birthday," Harry said. "I've never heard of _Saint_ Mungo's before and everyone's always just called me Harry, and my mother Lily."

"Huh," the goblin grunted, making a note in his files. "Saint Mungo's is a wizarding hospital here in London, it's where most wizarding children are born, just so you know. Personally, I thought all that _Harry_ stuff was part of that 'Boy–Who–Lived' rubbish. You know," Barchoke looked up at him curiously, "I'll never understand the human need to alter your own name. The only thing similar goblins have is 'Gotts' and 'the Halfwit' out there," he said, referring to the statue in the hall. "Gotts knows what they'd come up with if it became widespread with us. What would you call me, Chokey?"

Harry wondered if he was supposed to laugh and was thankfully saved by a well–timed knock on the door as the stump–faced wizard from before poked his head in.

"I heard salsa dancing so I thought I'd knock," the man he remembered as Lichfield said.

"Lester! Come in, come in," the goblin cried.

"Salsa dancing?" a confused Harry asked.

"Nice to see you again, Harold," Lichfield said, his gnarled hand pressing a bit on Harry's shoulder as the man moved behind him to retrieve the other chair.

"Apparently he goes by the name 'Harry,'" Barchoke explained.

"The mother always wins in the end," Lichfield said behind him.

"Everything underway?" the Overseer asked.

"Wouldn't be here otherwise. Sorry it took so long; Gropegold has a lot of cousins. Doubt you'll get anything from them though, they've been trying to get a piece of the action for years."

"Any bit of extra pressure we can bring to bear to get him to talk," Barchoke said with a wave.

Harry's tiny seat lurched as it quickly grew up around him. He thought the goblin had done it until a prod from Lichfield's wand saw its companion expand as well before the old wizard sat down beside him.

"Is he talking yet?" the goblin asked.

"Not yet," the warlock replied. "Hasn't stopped shouting at us to realize how much trouble he's really in. Now that the panic's worn off he must think he's in a good position not to have folded immediately."

"We could do with a bit more panic."

"So what's going on?" Harry asked, tired of being treated like he wasn't there. "And what do you mean 'the mother always wins'? You said we've met before?" Harry asked the Litigator.

"You could say I've _seen_ you before, though I doubt you could say the same. I doubt your eyes could focus at the time, you were very young. It was back when your father took over the estate from Charlus."

"Lester here got his start as bailiff for your grandfather," Barchoke said as way of an introduction, finally seeming to find a topic he was comfortable with.

"If your father had had it his way you would've been named James Jr. or _Jamie _– Merlin help us, but your mother insisted on Harold – or Harry, after her father," he said offhandedly. "But aye, that's my bailiwick," Lester agreed. "Enforce borders, resolve disputes, collect usage fees and rents, thump a few heads if people forget what's what," he said with a wink. "Not that I had to do a lot of that," he explained. "Your family was always good about getting good people. Sit down with them for tea and suddenly they're all _'Oh! I forgot we owe you money!'"_

"My family owned land?"

"_Owns_ land," the old wizard corrected. _"'Potter and earth go hand–in–hand,'_ or so they used to say. Even Gropegold couldn't sell it for all he was for kicking people off it. Not without you being of age and with your specific approval."

"Then why was he kicking people off their land?"

"Off _your_ land," Lichfield corrected him again with a pointed finger that said Harry'd get a good poking if he didn't learn the difference soon.

"It's not so uncommon with landed estates," Barchoke provided. "There's very few of them left but from time to time things change over from one generation to another, the new one bringing in new ideas on how to use the land, or just wanting a bit more cash–on–hand, and so they shuffle people off their property–"

"Naturally, we all thought that's what he was doing for you," Lester said. "Might be another five years before you can properly inherit but if you had already decided that you'd prefer glittering gold over your family's land–" Lichfield pulled a face to show what he thought of that idea. "Best start early rather than re–up someone's lease for another ten or twenty years and make you _wait_ to squander your inheritance."

And with that Lichfield settled into a deep silence, the look of concentration on his face making him look all the more like a gnarled root. _An old root that'd likely _poke _you if you went on without him_, Harry thought. Just when he was finally trying to think of a way to bring up something _he_ wanted to talk about – namely his problem with Dobby or the reason Gropegold was carried off in the first place – the wizened old man gave out a single terse "Damn."

"You remember something?" Barchoke asked.

"No, that's the problem," Lichfield groused. "I can't for the life of me remember where the Potter estate was. The main estate," he clarified, "the home estate, the center of Potter power. I visited there more times than I can count–," the grubby old wizard said with a shake of his finger, as if to order himself to recall it. "–But for the life of me I just can't remember the _name_. It should be right about–" he made a grasping motion as if to grab the air in front of him only to come away with nothing.

"Locked?" the goblin suggested.

"Could be," the old bailiff said cryptically. "It'd keep anyone from any minor lines we don't know about from sniping his Investiture and keep the likes of Gropegold from leveling the place. I'll have to check the _old _records for it. Might be in there. Gropegold would've been too lazy go back that far. But the _name_. Potter's _Soil? _No. Potter's _Wheel?_ No, that's just stupid."

"Anyway," the goblin said, drawing their attention again. "We seem to have gone a bit far afield–"

"It's the boy's fault," the old bailiff said, squinting at him with one eye larger than the other. "He's got Charlus's way about him," he said to Barchoke. To Harry he said, "To his dying day the old man would sit back and smile while everyone around him would natter on for hours, saying nothing. I swear it was some sort of spell. Your _father_ on the other hand, the few times I met with him you couldn't get him to shut up."

"Will you _please_ shut up?" the goblin cried.

Lichfield held his hands up in mock surrender, lips a thin gnarled line on his face, and then pointed at Harry as if _he'd_ been the one doing all the talking.

_"__Anyway,_" the goblin said. "As I was _trying_ to say – before a _rampaging hippogriff _stormed through the conversation–" Barchoke shot Lichfield another look. "Here at Gringotts the relationship between Account–_Holder _and Account _Manager _– well, it's virtually _sacrosanct_."

The goblin seemed to settle himself once more in his chair.

"Gringotts _itself_ does not _pay_ Account Managers, outside of a small training stipend to get them started. The Managers make their money from the account profits and _lose _money, in the form of Remittances back to the Holder, should their advice prove faulty. That said, who are _we_ to care if both Holder and Manager lose their shirts because of bad investment strategy so long as the Holder himself signs off on it? As Lester here said, for the longest time that's what we thought Gropegold was doing for you–"

"–More precisely, for your guardian," Lichfield clarified.

"My guardian?" Harry asked curiously. "But the Dursleys don't know anything about Gringotts."

"And there's the rub," Lester emphasized with a point.

"The Dursleys?" Barchoke asked, scribbling a new note on his page. "These are those muggles you wrote about?"

"Yes, my aunt and uncle. If they knew I had any money it would have been gone before they had to change my first diaper."

"Just how long have you been with them?" Barchoke asked incredulously.

"As long as I can remember," Harry said. "They said I'd been left on their doorstep just after my parents died."

The goblin and the stump shared a look and Harry thought he saw a gleam in the old stump's eyes.

"Now this aunt and uncle, as you call them. Who are they exactly?" the Litigator asked.

"They're–" Harry floundered, at a loss for any other words than the ones he'd already used, "my aunt and uncle. My mother's sister and her husband."

"A _real_ aunt and uncle. Huh," Lichfield grunted. "I thought she was dead. Or maybe I just _hoped_ she was."

Barchoke looked at him curiously.

"The woman was a _shrew_, the man was worse – if it's still the same one she was with."

"That sounds like them," Harry said curious as to how a Gringotts Litigator knew Aunt Petunia.

"Nearest blood relative then," Lester said as he nodded at Barchoke. "That's clever."

"Very clever," the goblin agreed.

_"What's_ clever?"

"A blood relative," Lester repeated. "Back then, You–Know–Who and his followers–,"

Barchoke made a disgusted face.

"–They targeted _whole families_, not just certain people. Young people, especially very young kids, they were moved around all the time. Grandparents, godparents, friends–of–the–family, whoever they had in the hopes that if You–Know–Who came to call, at least _some_ of the family would survive."

Lichfield noted the disgusted face Harry was wearing now as well.

"It was grizzly," Lester agreed, "but it worked. Some kids your age and older are only alive because they weren't at home when their parents were killed. It was Ministry law at the time for any wizarding orphan to be placed with their closest blood relation–."

"So I _should_ have been placed with the Dursleys?"

"–Their closest blood relation _in the wizarding world_," the Litigator clarified. "Unless it was specifically spelled out otherwise."

Harry was having difficulties seeing where he was going with this.

"We have no evidence yet to say that it was supposed to be anything different. We may not even find _that_ once we comb through your vault and dig through our files–"

"It's the _Ministry_ that handles Wills," Barchoke interjected.

"–And we don't want them involved just yet," Lichfield finished for him. "Those sisters _hated_ each other though and your parents had _plenty _of friends to call on – and they _knew_ they were being targeted, so why did you end up in the _muggle_ world?"

Harry had no answer for him.

"You were a _wizarding _child, born in the _wizarding _world to _wizarding _parents and you end up with _them?_ That, to me, says a guardian was involved and a guardian means the Ministry. By the spirit and letter of the law, _anyone_ in our world would have had a better chance at getting you than a muggle couple, even your mother's sister, so _that_ – to me – says _abandonment_."

"Abandoned." Harry suddenly felt cold. He knew he had been _left_, but to have _had_ a guardian and then to be _abandoned_ by them – and left with an aunt and uncle that _hated _him. Suddenly something clicked and everything he'd gone through on Privet Drive didn't look quite so rosy any more.

"I was named for _her father_," Harry said bitterly.

"What's that?" Barchoke asked.

"I was named for her father, and she let him lock me in the cupboard under the stairs until I got my Hogwarts letter, refusing to even let me be _fed_."

The goblin and litigator shared a look.

"Exactly how bad _were_ these people?" Lester asked quietly.

"You don't want to know," Harry said evasively.

Silence reigned for several moments before Lichfield started up again.

"Well, that's the case I'm wanting to make. Barchoke and I both know that the only way a goblin like Gropegold got his hands on your account was by guardian consent. With a Ministry writ in hand this guardian could have had preliminary access to your account here, and with what happened to your _last _Account Manager–"

"What happened to him?" Harry interrupted.

"They say his mind cracked when he heard about your parents' deaths," Barchoke said quickly so as not to prolong things now that Lichfield had them safely past Harry's past treatment. "He may have thought the _whole family_ lost and everything he'd ever worked for simply _gone_ – though Lester's theory now casts doubt on that,"

"–With him out of the way," the Litigator continued, "it would have been easy to find someone willing to look the other way as this guardian drained your inheritance and paid this _manager_ under the table for his trouble. Anyone who was familiar with the Ministry's familial placement priorities at the time could have simply dropped you off on your aunt's doorstep and most people wouldn't have thought twice about it."

"Anyone inside Gringotts," Barchoke explained, "who saw your account active, would have believed it was doing so under normal guardianship practices. I thought so myself, and I _knew_ that your parents had decided to shut things down as much as they could until you came of age. I just thought that your guardian simply wanted to grow the account more than simple securities ever could. I just _assumed_ that this guardian was keeping you out–of–sight."

"You may have noticed that you're a bit of a celebrity," Lester said dryly.

"And with Gropegold being no stranger to a finely–cut suit, how were we to know he was throwing bad money after good and _losing_ money when everything looked like he was _making_ money? Without an Account–Holder complaint we'd be hard–pressed to look through someone's files–"

"So how much money have I lost?" Harry asked concerned that he had just spent his last twelve galleons on a pair of shoes that he couldn't take back.

"Your guess is as good as ours. We won't know that quite some time yet."

"You should still be comfortable," Lichfield said, "just not as comfortable as you should be."

"Define 'comfortable.'" Harry said.

"In relation to what?"

"Having nothing."

"Having _nothing?"_ Lichfield asked, looking over to Barchoke for an answer.

"You're doing _good_," the goblin beamed, giving him a thumbs–up gesture.

"And compared to what it _should_ be?" Harry prompted.

"You're doing _baaad_," the goblin sagged and shook his head morosely.

"So how do we find this guardian?" Harry asked shortly.

"What about the transfer orders for today?" the goblin asked Lichfield.

"Axegrind stopped those dead. I've got them here," Lester said, pulling out a file for Barchoke to read. "There may be a few hints but unfortunately they're not going to do us a lot of good. They were signed _magically_–."

"–So unless we compare _this_ magical signature against the magical signature of every person we've ever done business with we're never going to find them with it," Barchoke finished for him.

"So why don't we do that?" Harry asked, wanting to get a move on things.

"Because we're a _bank_, we're not the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. We can't violate the privacy for the entire wizarding world just because we _want to_. We'd find ourselves in Azkaban faster than Sirius Black."

Lester's eyes went wide and Barchoke turned red.

The goblin mumbled an apology and buried himself in his files, his blush extending from the tip of his nose and the ends of his long ears. Harry thought it best not to ask.

"If you want to get the Ministry involved and take this through an official channel, that's your call," Lichfield said. "Gringotts would prefer to handle this internally for now. Either way, I'm authorized to act as your litigator as an extension of my previous bailiff responsibilities for your family. But I have to say, we take this forward now it's likely never to see the light of day. There are some rather large obstacles in our way that would bury us if this gets brought before the Wizengamot too soon."

"Like?"

"You're too young," the goblin said, his face now back to its normal color.

"Twelve is too young?"

"Twelve _is_ too young," Lester said. "If you were _thirteen _we could sue for emancipation on the grounds that you're the last of your line. It's on the _young _side of the scale, but it's been done before. Once _that's _done we could sue this absentee guardian for the mismanagement of your financial affairs, but there's also problems with _that_."

"Which are?"

"It takes _forever_," Barchoke groused.

_"And_ it legitimizes this claim of guardianship," Lichfield explained. "By claiming they were a _bad _guardian we're still recognizing that status as _a_ guardian. With them recognized as your guardian, even minimally, it immunizes Gringotts from any liability and leaves that guardian and Gropegold as the sole persons responsible for what happened and may end up limiting how much you're able to get back of what they stole from you."

"So if they already wasted all of the money they stole then I'm not likely to get anything back," Harry summed up.

"Exactly."

"Wonderful," Harry said, silently cursing this shadowy guardian. Just because he never cared about having the money before doesn't mean he wanted it stolen.

"There are some within Gringotts that would prefer you take this option–"

"–But you two don't?" Harry interjected, looking at Barchoke.

"I may not like Gringotts being seen in a bad light," the goblin said, "but what Lester's saying makes a lot of sense. Plus," the Overseer leafed through the files in front of him, "from what I'm seeing there are some pretty big fish out there to catch with this. But it will take _time._" Barchoke said meaningfully.

"I'm getting there, I'm getting there," Lichfield grumped. "Your youth will be an obstacle for us either way, but with this being a purely _civil _matter we have all of Gringotts behind us – or rather, in front of us, providing a very nice cover for our _joint_ investigation. As your litigator what I would suggest, and the Overseer here agrees, that _we _handle this as a case of _ward abandonment _and let Gringotts pursue this would–be guardian for bank fraud."

"Why bank fraud?" Harry asked.

"Because if this guardian _got _you, already intending to _abandon _you, then an easy case can be made that he was never _really _your guardian at all."

"And if they were never your guardian–," the Overseer prompted.

"–Then they had no right to administer your account and ten years of transactions and transfers go up in smoke," the litigator waved his hand as if wafting away a breeze.

"So what exactly would that mean for me?" Harry asked.

"What bank fraud means for you is that you're back in black."

Harry looked at him quizzically.

"It means all your money goes back to the way it should have been," Barchoke said, seemingly engrossed in the transfer orders.

"Just like that?" Harry asked, wondering what the catch was.

"Just like that," Lichfield said.

"_Not _just like that," the goblin said sharply.

Lichfield moved to explain.

"Gringotts honors its account security when it comes to fraud–"

"Gringotts is _required_ to honor its account security when it comes to fraud–" the Overseer grumped.

"Do you want to do this _yourself _or do you want _piddle _with your papers?"

The Overseer gave him a chagrined look and silently backpedaled into piddling.

"By Ministry banking law Gringotts is _required–,"_ Lichfield shot Barchoke a look, "–to honor its account security when it comes to fraud. The law was designed to stop Gringotts, or any affiliated goblin, from defrauding the public for their own gain. Your accounts are insured so your losses are reversed and all the debt incurred becomes the property of Gringotts."

"Why would who owns the debt be important?" Harry asked.

This time it was the litigator who looked wary.

"Let's just say it's never good to owe a bank," Lichfield said, carefully not looking anywhere near the Overseer.

"Especially not a _goblin_ bank," Barchoke interjected, now safely beyond rebuke.

"Right," Harry said to fill the tense silence that followed.

"So when it comes to finding this _guardian_," Lichfield said, choosing to address the least scary topic raised so far. "As it stands right now, I can see three ways of going about it. The first is Gropegold; we've got him safely stashed away. He'll be facing goblin justice soon anyway so the only hope he has is giving up his accomplice–"

"–And even then he won't get much," the Overseer pronounced.

"Our second avenue of inquiry is these _Dursleys_."

Harry made a disgusted look, already seeing where this was going.

"Now I'm not gonna say I like it," Lichfield said quickly. "Or even that I'm suggesting it. I'm simply saying that bringing civil or criminal charges in the wizarding world against muggles is almost impossible and it'll bring all sorts of attention that I'm sure you don't want, while bringing those same charges in the muggle world threatens the Statute of Secrecy. We can't even _arrange_ for anything unfortunate to happen to them without breaking a dozen anti–muggle persecution laws ourselves."

"But they don't know that," Harry said quietly.

"They _may not_ know that," Lichfield corrected him. "And even if they _don't _the only leverage we'd gain on them is for information in exchange for leaving them alone."

Lichfield let the silence linger.

"And this third option?" Harry asked.

"We do nothing."

Harry looked up at him.

"We've already closed down their access to Gropegold," Lichfield explained. "The rest of your account is easy enough to put under seal so that they can't possibly touch it. We pinch them in the pocket book and eventually they'll turn up."

"That's not to say we'll give up on Gropegold," Barchoke said. "Not by any means. It just means that if he doesn't talk we can still find this guardian."

"We'll just be a little flat–footed when they show up and if they're suitably important–"

"–And it looks like they are–"

"–Then they may catch us with our pants down before we're ready to display what we've got."

"So what do we need in order to _get _ready?" Harry asked.

"The first order of business is to deal with that youth issue," Lichfield said.

"Second order," Barchoke corrected him. _"First_ order is getting him _out _of that house and _into _our world."

"You mean away from the Dursleys?" Harry asked, looking from one to the other, hopes rising for the first time. "You mean never going back?"

"We mean never _ever_ going back," Lichfield agreed.

.o0O0o.

**AN:** When I initially posted this, I made the mistake of chopping the Gringotts visit up with the misguided idea that I should try to keep the chapters roughly even in length. I've since learned that _that_ is a horrible idea; it made it feel like Harry was there _forever_. I've kept Ch 4 - 6 as they were to keep all the reviews but you should really think of them as parts of the same chapter. It might allay this frustrated feeling.

Thanks for reading.


	5. Traces

**AN:** When I initially posted this I made the mistake of chopping the Gringotts visit up with the misguided idea that I should try to keep the chapters roughly even in length. I've since learned that _that_ is a horrible idea. It made it feel like Harry was there forever. I've kept Ch 4 - 6 as they were to keep all the reviews but you should really think of them as parts of the same chapter. It might allay this frustrated feeling.

There's a lot in these chapters, and I apologize for the legal talk but that's what comes from creating two characters with legal backgrounds, even if they are entertaining. All of this serves to establish Harry and the world he finds himself in so it's rather important that it's done right.

We pick up with the Gringotts group already in progress.

.o0O0o.

_"__You mean away from the Dursleys?" Harry asked, looking from one to the other, hopes rising for the first time. "You mean never going back?"_

_"__We mean never _ever_ going back," Lichfield agreed._

"WOOHOO!" Harry's great cry went up as out of his robes came his bulging hand–me–downs and they too followed his cheer up to the ceiling before coming back down onto two very disturbed Gringotts employees.

"He's certainly taking this well," Barchoke said as he scooted Harry's pants off his precious files.

"It's always so difficult giving bad news," Lichfield lamented with a dramatic shake of his head, a hand pressed to his heart.

"Hang on," Harry said, coming back to the ground again. "My trunk, all my stuff for school, it's still there. Won't I _have to _go back?"

Barchoke's eyes went wide, but not for the reason he thought.

"Our security!" the goblin cried with a shocked stare at his empty snow globe. "Everyone quiet, quiet!" In a blur, files were flipped and drawers drawn as the distressed goblin searched for something. "Now where did I put that thing? I just had it."

Harry turned to ask the old wizard beside him for answers but Lichfield already had one gnarled finger to his lips and another ready for poking.

"Aha!" the goblin cried, holding up a shiny slender tuning fork. _"Here's_ the little doxie."

With two fingers daintily holding the shiny silver instrument, the Overseer tapped his desk and touched the other end to the clear globe. Expecting the dancing couple to appear again Harry was kind of disappointed when purple dinosaur and a small group of children showed up and started silently singing and dancing around.

"I usually have it set on salsa dancing," the goblin said.

"–_Very_ disconcerting for anyone trying to listen in," Lichfield interrupted. _"Way_ too active and energetic for most people's tastes – a bit like _him_ once you get to know him," the old warlock said with a thumb pointed towards the Overseer.

_"__You're_ one to talk," the goblin groused. "The only one who can stand _you_ is _me_, and Gotts knows how I put up with you. Must have the patience of a smith of old," he ended stuffily.

"And for a flighty little doxie that's saying something."

Barchoke shot him a look.

"So what _is_ that?" Harry asked, hoping to corral the adults into acting their age.

"It's called a Concealer," Lichfield explained. "Anyone trying to listen in will only hear whatever's going on inside that orb."

"And if they heard any of that last bit this will _really_ annoy them," the goblin said as he studied the globe. "You think someone broke through?"

"I think his pants turned it off."

"No throwing pants!" the goblin ordered Harry.

"Oh yes, just _shirts_ will be fine," Lichfield said sarcastically as he handed Harry's hand–me–downs back to him.

Harry expected some sort of comeback from the Overseer but Barchoke had a finger to his lips, brow furrowed in serious thought. "His things, his _things_," the goblin muttered. "What do we do about his _things?"_ Suddenly his eyes popped and out from a drawer came a very big book that he threw on the desk with a bang. The goblin muttered to himself as he flipped through section after section of tiny text.

Lichfield sat back in his chair.

"He'll find it," Lester said. "He always finds it when he gets like this. It may not be exactly what you _think_ – but he'll find it," the old stump said confidently as Harry wondered what 'it' could be.

"Aha!" the goblin cried pointing to a specific line of very tiny text. _"You_, Mr. Potter, are a _wizard,_ are you not?"

"Er – Yes," Harry said curiously.

"And, although you cannot be said to _own_ the domicile in question, it remains, _technically speaking,_ your residence – until further notice. Is that not the case?" Barchoke said with a smile, lights dancing in his eyes.

Harry looked over at the old wizard next to him. Lichfield was already nodding his head.

"Yes."

"And the objects in question may be said to _belong_ to you?"

"I guess so."

"Well then," the goblin said happily. "All that needs to be done is to fill out this form _here_," out of one drawer came the form in question, "as to the address and location of the residence, as well as a general description of what is to be _retrieved_–." And another drawer was opened and similar–looking form soon joined the first. "And then on _this_ form we place the same information as to the objects to be _withdrawn_–"

Harry wondered about the difference as an almost cackling Barchoke scooted the available quill and ink set closer to Harry.

"And then, under Banking Order 659, Section Q, Subsection B, Gringotts can _retrieve_ your property from your residence to _deposit_ into your vault and then _withdraw_ your property _from_ your vault and _deliver_ it to the _new_ location that is _considered_ your residence at _that_ time. And take _that_ Unauthorized Transit Stricture!" Barchoke shouted in triumph.

Harry looked over at the old stump.

"Yep. Didn't see that one coming," Lichfield said.

Harry shook his head and went about filling out the forms in front of him.

"Go ahead and list anything the Dursleys let you use on a regular basis," Lichfield advised. "As long as you can reasonably say that you _believe _they gave them to you, you should be covered. If they don't like it, let them go complain their authorities that goblins stole their furniture and see what good that'll do them."

Harry shrugged and went ahead and listed the desk, bed, wardrobe, and clothes he used along with detailed instructions to find what he had hidden under the invisibility cloak. He may never plan on _wearing_ the clothes again, but _throwing them_ sure felt nice. It was only when he got to the end of the second form, where it asked for the location of the residence where everything would be delivered to that Harry ran into a stumbling block.

"Where should I say my residence is?" Harry asked.

"Huh," Lichfield grunted. "The Leaky Cauldron is out. Unless you stayed there a _month_ it couldn't legally be considered a residence, and by _then _you'd be on your way back to school. We haven't had a chance yet to go through your file and see if you have any vacant properties suitable for living in."

Barchoke's triumphant face fell.

"What about the place in Godric's Hollow?" the Overseer asked.

"The Ministry turned it into a damn monument," the Litigator said tersely. Harry instantly wanted to ask about it, but certainly didn't want to ask him right then when it brought out that kind of mood.

"Is there nowhere in the wizarding world you can stay at in the mean time?" Barchoke asked. "Staying with Lester or I would seem rather biased and the muggle world just won't do for us _at all_."

"Both _would _work against you," Lester nodded to Harry.

"Well my friend, Ron Weasley, did invite me over to stay–" Harry said, wondering what the Weasleys would say when he showed up with a bedroom set in tow. "But he never said where they live."

"Weasleys?" Barchoke looked to the Litigator. "Er – Um. The name sounds familiar but I don't recall any Account Manager with that folio."

"Probably because there isn't one," Lichfield replied. "I _think_ I know the family he's talking about – they keep popping up on the minimum balance list."

"Oh, _that_ one. Never dealt with them in person."

Harry felt rather embarrassed. He knew that Ron's family were poor but hadn't meant to advertise the fact.

"Don't we have a Weasley somewhere," the goblin asked, "or was that a Wesley?"

"No, you're right. There is a Weasley stationed overseas somewhere," Lichfield confirmed. "I heard some of the secretaries talk about him today when he came in for his yearly performance review. Apparently, he's _dreamy,_" he said wryly. "I slipped out of the office before anyone could ask me to run him through Legals. Want me to have him recalled if he's not here?"

"No, no," Barchoke said with a wave. "That'd raise far too much fuss. Just grab him if you see him."

"It's not going to get him into any trouble, is it?" Harry asked, remembering the last time goblins _grabbed_ anyone around him.

"We're not going to drag him down the hall, if that's what you mean," Lichfield said with a smirk.

"You know, this may work in our favor," the goblin continued, his finger back to his lip in thought. "If we can manage to change this informal invite into a formal rental agreement–"

"First things first," Lester said.

"Oh yes," the goblin said. "You just sign the bottom. Lester can fill out the rest when he goes to find these Weasels."

_"__Weasleys_," Harry corrected.

"Right," the goblin said as Harry signed the form. "Now what we need for you going forward–" the goblin told him, "–is some sort of _rental_ agreement, at least until your next birthday–."

"That can wait," Lichfield said forcefully.

"But it sets up the legal groundwork to counter the _youth_ issue!" cried the exasperated goblin.

"–And it can wait," the Litigator repeated. "The Account Seal comes first since it's the most important. It _should_ have been done the moment I stepped inside this office but some pestilential pixie started pelting me with questions."

Harry looked at him, remembering all the questions _he_ had asked him.

"Not _you_," Lichfield said, noticing his concern. _"Him_," he gestured with his thumb. "And if the legal beagle hadn't run off without me I would've had you sign it before signing those other forms."

"Shouldn't that be _eagle?"_ Harry corrected.

"No," Lichfield said with a look to Barchoke. "Because he's _small_, like a beagle."

The beagle was not amused.

"Then a great _stump_ like you should keep an eye on him," Harry said with a grin. "You know what dogs are like when it comes to trees."

"Ha!" Lichfield cried as Barchoke let off a short round of machine gun like bursts of laughter.

"Stumpy's right," the goblin said. "The Seal should come first."

"So that's a thing now?" Lichfield asked.

"It's better than _beagle_," Barchoke scorned.

"Would you prefer _doxie?"_

_"__I'd prefer to get you all out of my office so I can wonder how this all went so horribly wrong,"_ Barchoke huffed quickly.

"So what does a Seal do?" Harry asked before his brain caught up and he regretted the question.

_"__ItlockstheAccount,_" Barchoke blurted out quickly, before Lichfield could have a field day.

Lichfield eyed them both with a smirk.

"A Seal locks things down so that nothing can be done without a bit of blood and magic from you."

"My _blood?"_

"It's the safest way to do things," Lichfield said offhandedly. "Polyjuice Potion can give a person someone else's appearance, but that just alters their body, that can't alter their blood. The same is true for magic. Someone could cast charms on themselves to make everyone _think_ they're you, but everyone's magic registers differently."

"So it's like a fingerprint?" Harry said, catching on to what he meant.

"Huh," Lichfield grunted, staring down at his thumb. "I never thought they might be different."

"So if a person's blood and magic doesn't match _mine_ then–"

"Then nothing happens," Lichfield continued. "The tellers can't honor cheques, distribute funds, no contracts can be entered into – nothing. We use both because getting one might be possible, getting both would be brobdingnagian."

Harry looked at Barchoke.

"A really really really really really really _really_ big thing to do," the goblin explained.

"And since this _guardian_ signs everything magically–," Harry said, catching on to where he was going.

"Then none of his orders will be any good," Lichfield finished for him. "There'll be silence from our end so they'll have to come _here_ to figure out why it's not being followed."

"Any currently ongoing contracts should already be put on hold while our Audit is underway," Barchoke explained. "Only those made _before_ Gropegold will be honored, but even those will be scrutinized. Anyone with a genuine lease with you should be covered though."

"What about the people he forced off–" Harry eyed Lichfield warily, _"–the_ land? Can they come back?" he asked, the lack of a poke saying he had picked an appropriate article.

"Nothing _formal_ can be set up with them," the Litigator explained, putting his poking finger away. "Not until we resolve the guardianship issue and you can stand on your own. But once the Account's been Sealed whoever it is won't be able to force them off again. Even if they get the Ministry involved we can object and mire the whole thing down until the whole issue is resolved. We won't be able to collect rents or anything like that, but what's a few Canutes compared to the good that'll do us?"

"Canutes? I thought it was called a knut," Harry said, wondering if he'd been saying it wrong.

"It _is_ called a knut," the goblin said. "This nut's the only nut I know to call a knut Canute."

"Good one," Lichfield nodded appreciatively.

"He's not _wrong_," Barchoke explained. "He only _seems_ wrong because everyone else stopped pronouncing it that way _around the turn of the last millennium_."

"It rhymes better," the old wizard said with a shrug. "Few Canutes, few Canutes, few Canutes."

"He's a few Can–idiot," Barchoke said to Harry.

_"__Better,_" Lichfield pointed at his little friend. "I like that."

He turned to Harry.

"Putting the people back on the land is a good move, it shows that you have _your own _ideas about what to do with it, _and_ it shows that the people are willing to accept you, no matter _how old _you are. It's what Charlus would've done," Lichfield said thoughtfully. "And it should help get the Wizengamot to see you as something other than a little kid. If we could follow that up with a rental agreement–"

Suddenly Lichfield shot Barchoke a look.

"You've gotten me distracted," he said gruffly. "Don't you go blaming me if this conversation keeps bouncing around. We were talking about the _Seal_."

"Yes, yes," the goblin said, rooting through his desk again before taking out a rather thick type of paper Harry had never seen before.

Harry felt the texture of it. It certainly _felt _different. He didn't know if it was because of the magic it must contain or because–

"It's vellum," Lichfield said. "It holds the blood better, and it makes the magical signature easier to differentiate."

Barchoke slid the ink and quill set _away _from Harry.

"Won't I need that?" he asked.

"First you'll need _this_," the goblin said as he handed over a rather sharp looking black quill.

"What is it?" Harry asked cautiously.

"It's a Blood Quill," the old warlock said. "And it's just what it sounds like. It writes with your own blood rather than any ink. Watch out though, it's painful."

"It _should _be painful," the Overseer pronounced. "It makes people _think_. And you shouldn't be complaining, in the old days we used to make you write the _whole thing _in blood."

"So how much do I have to write?" Harry asked.

"Some people use an X, though most people use a small slash," the Litigator explained. "That fool _Lockhart _signed his full name, complete with curlicues, with it for his last book deal," he told the Overseer.

"Did he cry for his _mommy _afterwards?" Barchoke smirked.

"Pretty much."

Harry steeled himself before making a small diagonal slash that looked more like a checkmark. An instant after he was done the back of his right hand stung. Looking at it he saw that the quill had cut into his skin like a scalpel – yet even as he stared at the shining cut, the skin healed over again, leaving the place where it had been slightly redder than before but quite smooth.

"Now you see why people should _think_ before signing anything," the Overseer grinned.

"I'll take _that_," Lichfield said, plucking the Blood Quill out of his hands before it could touch anything else. He then conjured a glass of water and stuck the quill inside it. "It makes sure there are no traces," he said, noting the look on Harry's face. "Never hurts to be vigilant."

"Now," the goblin said, scooting the ink and quill set back to him. "You can use this. All you have to do is write,_ 'I, Harold James Potter–,' _or you can use _'Harry' _if that's how you'd like to think of yourself, it doesn't make a difference._'–Do hereby Seal my Account with blood and magic._'"

_Seems simple enough,_ Harry thought to himself as he took up the quill and started to write. _'I,–' _Simple or not, that one letter was as far as he got before he had to stop. _'Am I a Harry or a Harold?'_ he wondered.

He had always been a Harry. Everyone called him Harry. He _liked_ being Harry, Harry thought to himself; making a list of for both sides. His mother had named him _Harold _though, had _insisted_ on it. _'But it didn't matter to her,_' he reminded himself. _'Her dad was a Harry too._' They had used _both,_ he was forced to conclude, so how was he to decide?

_'__Harry sounds too young,_' a part of him thought.

_'__But Harold sounds so old,_' the other side said.

_'__If age is an issue,_ he told them both,_ 'then it's better for them to think that I'm older._'

That part of him had a very good point.

_'__Your friends won't want to hang out with stuffy old Harold_,' the Harry part of him said.

_'__Your friends will like you either way,_' the Harold part countered._ 'Hermione might actually think _Harold_ is more mature._'

No other part of him had thought of that at all. The Harry side of him actually seemed to _blush_.

_Harold gets his work done. Harold thinks for the future. Harold handles his own Account and wins against the guardian,_' the Harold side pushed.

_'__Harry likes Quidditch. Harry likes chess with Ron. Harry likes sneaking out at night and running around the castle_,' the Harry side reminded him.

How does he decide? _'I like them both!'_

"What's wrong?" the Overseer asked, noting he hadn't moved in a while. "Did you make a spot?" Barchoke peered over his desk at the vellum.

Lichfield seemed to catch on to the dilemma.

"You might want to consider the goblin approach," he said.

The Overseer looked at him wondering if he should be offended.

"In public, goblins have the utmost professionalism,–" Lichfield explained as an approving smile started on the Overseer's lips. "–But once you're in private,–" he said as the goblin scrutinized him again, "–_and _once a suitable rapport develops," he clarified, "then that professional wall can come down and you can relate to them like normal human beings."

Barchoke seemed to ponder that last bit.

"So you're saying I can be _Harry _to my friends and _Harold _to everyone else."

"It's about the same as saying _Harry _Potter or _Mr._ Potter," Lichfield said. "It all depends on mood and context, _and_ how you want them to think of you."

"I gathered that part," he said.

"We _do _do that, don't we?" Barchoke remarked. "I never realized that before."

"It's the benefits of an outsider's perspective," Lichfield remarked.

"No wonder I was like that when we first came in here," Barchoke remarked to himself.

"What _were_ you like before I got here?" Lester asked.

"I don't want you to make fun of me," the goblin said.

"I always make fun of you–."

Harry tuned them out and continued to write.

_'__I, Harold James Potter, do hereby Seal my Account with blood and magic.'_

Harry sat back and looked at the vellum. Nothing happened. Part of him had been expecting fireworks, or trumpets, or for it to be whisked away in a puff of smoke – instead all he heard was–

"I'm lucky you don't carry me down the hall wearing a bonnet!"

_"__What?"_ Harry asked.

For the first time today _both_ adults blushed. They had obviously forgotten he was there.

"Nothing, nothing," Barchoke said with a wave as he tried to put that particular outburst behind him. "Now you seal it with magic."

"But I can't do that," Harry said. "I thought _you_ did. I can't do magic outside of Hogwarts."

The Overseer looked at Lichfield like Harry had just said that he wanted to grow up to be the dancing purple dinosaur.

"There was an anti–muggle panic back in the late 40's. Everyone went mad thinking they'd drop Atopic Bombs on us."

"You mean _atomic_ bombs?" Harry corrected.

"Why, what do _they_ do?" Lichfield asked evenly.

"They blow up a city the size of London in about half a second."

Barchoke and the Litigator shared a look, as if wondering why anyone would be mad enough to make such a thing in the first place.

"And here was me wondering what the big deal was about a little bit of _skin rash_," Lichfield deadpanned. "Now I'm glad they passed those laws. Not that you could really enforce them."

Barchoke still looked lost, anything not banking related obviously not his forte.

"They set up a Trace program and a magical detection web," the warlock said. "The ICW had been pushing hard for it for years. Then they tagged every underage witch and wizard up and down the country. Now they tag kids when they're born in our world or when they first use magic in theirs."

"I don't remember that happening," Harry said.

"Maybe because you were born in _our_ world," Lichfield reminded him. "If you were born in on the muggle side they may have done it while you were at school, or they could have just _Obliviated_ you, I suppose. They would've approached your family around then, to let them know about the wizarding world and what to expect in the future. The idea was to give the parents several years to get used to the idea of their kids being magical before telling the kids themselves."

"So this Trace actively stops him from doing magic?" Barchoke asked.

"No, it's just a convoluted baby minder," Lichfield continued. "Any magic goes off around him while he's underage and the Ministry will be made aware of it. If he's a Hogwarts student and not in a recognized wizarding area they'll assume he did it and send him a warning."

"So what's the hold up?" Barchoke asked. "He's in Gringotts Bank, in the middle of Diagon Alley, with a goblin and a wizard with one foot in the grave. Even if they thought it _iffy_ there's more than enough reasonable doubt to get him out of any official sanction. _You've_ done magic around him so if they were going to come after him they'd be beating the door down already!"

"Exactly," Lichfield agreed. "You're fine, Harry. Don't worry. There should be an exception for cases like this for it to square with the older banking laws, but even if there's not, this would just serve as a case to establish it anyway. As long as there are other wizarding people around you, especially if one's of age, _or if you're in a wizarding home _for example, then you're in the clear. They _tell_ you that you can't do it but what they _mean_ is that they don't _want_ you to."

"Did you just tell him that it's fine to do something _illegal?"_ the Overseer asked, eyes momentarily hardening.

"I merely mentioned to my _client _an interesting tidbit of legal trivia about the topic at hand," Lichfield replied formally. Barchoke seemed to accept that.

"Just don't go spreading that around," Lichfield continued. "Once it gets out, _everyone _will use it and the Ministry will have to come up with something that's an even _bigger_ infringement on your personal liberties. Something that might actually _work._ As it is, it's really only useful for keeping muggleborns from practicing and getting a leg up on everyone else."

Thoughts of Hermione had Harry thinking that this was completely unfair.

"And why do they pick on _muggleborns?"_

"Because they have this idea that they're the ones most likely to use muggle technology to destroy them all if they get miffed about all the persecution they have to deal with," the Litigator said evenly. "It only takes one."

"You know a lot about the Ministry," he said to the Litigator.

"And you don't miss much," the Litigator replied.

And with that Harry realized just how reserved the warlock had been during all that. Besides that bit about skin rash, which he supposed could've been genuine, he hadn't cracked a joke the entire time. _Lichfield_ had obviously lowered his 'professional wall' around _Harry_ but with _Harold_ it's a completely different situation. He wondered how this dynamic could've gotten so complicated and why anyone would want to work for Gringotts at all if this was what you had to go through on a daily basis.

"So," Barchoke said, filling the uncomfortable silence that had descended. "Sealing with magic... Let's go," he finished in a falsely chipper tone.

"You take out your wand and press it to the vellum," the Litigator said, still in his somber mood. "Preferably in line with what you wrote before and the blood. Then you… _push_ a bit of your magic out. That's the only way I know how to describe it. Don't try to cast a spell, just _push_ while thinking about what you wrote there. You'll get it."

Harry did as Lichfield said but didn't really know _how_ to push. When he was finally ready to give up and just wanted the whole Sealing thing over with he felt this… _pulse_. The only thing he had to compare it to was when he first held his wand in Ollivander's a year ago.

He assumed he had done it correctly since Lichfield quickly plucked the Blood Quill out of the water, made his scratch, signed his name normally, and did the same next to it before sliding it to Barchoke. The goblin repeated the process, but since he didn't have a wand he used a licked thumb instead. After he was done the goblin took out some sort of stamp and cried, "Sealed!" before slamming it down on the vellum and it disappeared in a puff of smoke.

"You realize that was supposed to be filed _after_ those other two forms, right?" Lichfield reminded the goblin.

"Damn," Barchoke said. "That'll be another form."

"I'll do it later when I file these others and contact the Weasleys," Lichfield said with a wave. "It's on the list. What's next?"

"If this Trace can detect magic around me, why didn't it pick up what a house–elf did last night?" Harry asked, figuring no more damage could be done to Lichfield's mood and that this would probably be the only way to bring up why _he_ wanted to be here in the first place.

"A house–elf? Last night?" the Overseer asked. "I don't think I want to hear this," the goblin said quickly before covering his ears and beginning to hum.

Harry looked to Lichfield to fill him in.

"Overseers are required by law to report any illegal activity; Account Managers aren't. He might be _acting_ as your Account Manager right now but if he hears about a breach by someone else he'll have to report it, and a _house–elf _in a _muggle _residence doing _magic _is certainly that. We're only skirting by the whole _bank fraud_ issue by him saying it's a _potential_ civil matter, but that won't hold for long."

"And what about Litigators?" Harry asked.

"We don't care. It's our job to get you _out_ of trouble _you_ get into and get done what you want to get done, and I'm _your_ litigator."

Harry briefly told Lichfield how Dobby had appeared and why he wanted to buy him.

"If it was just about acquiring a house–elf," Lichfield said. "I've got one I'd bloody _give_ you. She's way too young and energetic for me; makes me feel old. Buying a _specific_ elf though–"

"Is it possible to find this family?"

"Should be possible," Lichfield nodded. "I know someone in Dodgy Deals, he owes me a favor. Anyone who treats a house–elf like that will be up to their neck in them. I'll imply it's for me, that I'm buying Mipsy a mate and she just _really liked_ this Dobby of yours."

Harry wished Lichfield would go back to being the joking guy he was when he came in but couldn't think of what he could do to make that happen.

"He didn't mention anything specific about what this threat is supposed to be?" Lichfield asked.

"No, just that _terrible things_ will happen," Harry explained. "I'm _hoping_ that once I buy him he'll be able to tell me more."

"It might work," Lichfield nodded. "Then again if his family _is_ involved he might not be able to tell you even then. Even if he _hated_ his family and they hated him, that's just the way house–elves work. That family needs their secrets kept and house–elves need Need. I guess it's just a difference between who needs that information more: you, or them. House–elves are just different that way. I take it then that you're not wanting to be pulled out of school, just to be safe?"

He didn't wait for Harry to respond.

"I didn't think so. I guess we can only hope he misunderstood the severity of the threat and that we get this whole guardian thing taken care of before you get yourself killed or it'll make everything we've done here today irrelevant."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked.

"Well, with you dead, your line gone," Lichfield explained, "and you being too young to name an inheritor, the guardian becomes only one with a viable claim. It won't matter then that they had abandoned you, or that they stole from you, the Ministry will just give everything over to them."

_"__Harry Potter must stay where he is safe!"_ Dobby's voice cried again in his mind.

"So you're saying that this guardian has reason to _kill me?"_

"I'm saying it's a theory. But yes, this guardian has plenty of _golden_ reasons to kill you, especially now that you know what they've been up to."

"And all I wanted to do was be nice to a house–elf," Harry said stupefied.

"Yeah, they'll make you want to. It's hard not to like them, even the old crusty ones. It sounds condescending but they're really a lot like small children – only with a _lot_ of power behind them and an eagerness to please."

Harry wanted to say something in Dobby's defense, but really couldn't since he had been treating him the same way without even realizing it. Even _Cadogan _did it. _'Maybe it's their tiny bodies that makes us treat them like children,_' Harry thought. _That way we'd look after them._ It'd certainly explain why the word 'family' was repeated so often when dealing with them.

"I'd ask how much you wanted to spend," Lichfield continued, "but since you've got no real idea about the size of your own funds–."

"I'll leave that up to you," Harry said. "You just find him and get them to sell. He's the whole reason I'm here in the first place so no matter what it costs me he's worth _twice _that much."

Lichfield looked over at the Overseer.

"You want me to poke him or do you want to wait until he finishes?" Lichfield said with a slight smirk.

By this time Barchoke had switched to some kind of harsh–sounding music for his humming that Harry was sure must've been goblin in origin.

"Poke him," Harry said with a smile.

A quick prick by a gnarled poking finger soon got the goblin's attention.

"Ow! Sorry about that, Mr. Potter," the goblin said, rubbing his side. "Overseers are required by law–"

"I already told him," Lichfield interrupted. "Final details?"

"Right, right. Now that the Seal's in place all that's left is the Key," the Overseer said.

"You have your Key," Lichfield asked, "or is that in your stuff back at the muggles?"

"Er – neither," Harry said. "I don't have a key."

Lichfield looked at the Overseer, the Overseer looked at his files.

"It says here that your Key was presented to a Teller on July 31st of last year to be inspected before withdrawal, and _that's_ corroborated by the report filed by the cart operator that led you to your vault and opened the door," the Overseer reported. "Are you saying these reports are in error?"

"Er – No, it was there. It's just–," suddenly a really uncomfortable thought occurred to him. _Hagrid _was the one that had given his Key to the Teller. But how did he get it? Suddenly Harry heard Hagrid's voice echo in his mind. _"An I've also got a letter here from Professor _Dumbledore," _Hagrid said importantly, throwing out his chest. "It's about the _You–Know–What_ in vault seven hundred and thirteen..._"

Hagrid coming to see him had been "Hogwarts business," or so he'd told the bartender at the Leaky Cauldron. So had retrieving the Sorcerer's Stone from vault seven hundred and thirteen. To get his money out of his vault Hagrid would've _had _to have his Key, but no one besides the _guardian_ could have had it to give him. _'And wasn't Hagrid always going on about how great _Dumbledore _was?'_ Harry asked himself._ 'He'd do anything for the old man without asking _why.'

And then Hermione's voice sprang to mind, _"We were dashing up to the owlery to contact _Dumbledore _when we met him in the entrance hall – he already knew – he just said 'Harry's gone after him, hasn't he?' and hurtled off to the third floor."_

And then she was replaced by Ron, _"D'you think he _meant_ for you to do it? Sending you your father's Cloak and everything?"_

Harry's mind bounced back to that Christmas, _"Your father left this in my possession before _he _died–"_

_"__Well," _Hermione exploded back into his mind again. _"If he did – I mean to say – that's terrible – you could have been killed."_

_'__But Dumbledore had rushed to _help _me. He _saved _me, didn't he?'_ Harry asked himself.

_'__We can't know that,_' the Harold side of him said. _'Quirrell could have already been dead by the time he got there. We were unconscious, so how would we know the difference? He could have just taken credit for it.'_

_'__Then why didn't he just kill us _then?' the Harry side asked.

_'__Maybe he doesn't want to get his hands dirty. But if horrible things just happen _around_ us..._'

No part of him liked where this was going. Especially since he was now talking to himself in his own head.

"What will happen to them?" Harry asked the others. "The people around the guardian. The ones who knew about the Dursleys and didn't think anything of it. I can't think they'd betray me like that, no matter what _his_ motives might be," Harry said scornfully, unable to bring himself to say the name.

"I can't see charges sticking against the people who didn't know any better even if you wanted to make them," Barchoke said. "We all made the same mistake, so there's plenty of blame to go around. It's the _money _we're going after and this guardian is the one who took it. Him and the ones he gave money to, _they_ are the ones Gringotts will be holding liable for the debt."

"You know who he is," Lichfield said. "You know who has the Key." He hadn't said it like a question.

"I want to see what happened to the last Account Manager," the Harry that was Harold said. "The one before Gropegold." He looked Lichfield in the eye and didn't say it like a request.

.o0O0o.

**AN:** I'm glad of the reception I've gotten with my heavily restricted version of the "Harry goes to Gringotts" trope. Thanks for being open to something new and, as always_–_

Thanks for reading.


	6. The Price

**AN:** There's been a lot of legal talk, and several reviewers have asked for a quick, concise recap of everything. I've finally found an excuse to give it, so now everyone can be on the same page on what's going on.

This chapter is dedicated to two White Buffalo Women: the one who will read this and made Lichfield who he is, and the one who will never read it and who made _me_ into Lichfield.

.o0O0o.

_"__You know who he is," Lichfield said. "You know who has the Key." He hadn't said it like a question._

_"__I want to see what happened to the last Account Manager," the Harry that was Harold said. "The one before Gropegold." He looked Lichfield in the eye and didn't say it like a request._

Lichfield looked him in the eye for a long moment after that, as if seeing him for the first time. The stump–like face betrayed nothing – but if he was looking for him to blink, Harry was stubbornly resolved not to give it to him. If they were asking him to believe what they're telling him to believe, to put his very first friend in a position to be betrayed by the same guardian that _had_ betrayed him or be torn apart by the goblins if the gentle giant _didn't_ believe them, then Harry had to know that what they were saying was real. He had to help Hagrid as much as he could, and that demanded he take something from _them_ first.

The old wizard turned and looked at the Overseer, the goblin now oddly silent, subdued. The goblin tersely nodded, as if agreeing to a deal that'd leave him without a knut to his name.

"You want me to go with you?" the warlock asked, a genuine look of concern on his harsh face.

"No," the Overseer said gruffly with a shake of his head. "I'll take him. You – you go–." Words seem to fail him and Harry wondered what it was exactly he had asked for.

"I'll go see to these forms, shall I?" Lichfield said rising and collecting the forms that Harry had signed. "It'd give me a chance to find these Weasleys and look to other things," he said with a glance to Harry.

"Yes, yes. Good," the goblin said. "You can find us when you're done."

Lichfield glanced at him again, gnarled finger gesturing to the bulging hand–me–downs that Harry had smuggled into the building, silently asking if he wanted the warlock to take them. Harry nodded and handed them over, glad to see the last of them.

It was in silence that the Litigator left them, and it was a silence that lingered.

The goblin rearranged his files with his eyes on his work, seeming to take comfort in the neatly ordered nature of a tidy desk. Settled once again, Barchoke seemed to gather himself once more.

"I think I may have to start by apologizing for Lichfield," the goblin said.

"He didn't seem to like me much at the end there," Harry replied.

"Oh, no. He liked you, he liked you," the goblin reassured him somberly. "If he hadn't, he never would have compared you to Charlus," he explained. "They were very close ever since their school days, from what he's said. Any number of things could've gotten him into that funk."

Once again the goblin's files were arranged just so. Harry spotted the nondescript shoebox Cadogan had given him to house his old peeling trainers and picked it up off the floor where it had fallen.

"What I think I should apologize for is Lichfield's business manner, or lack thereof," the Overseer said.

"It's alright," Harry replied. "I like the jokes."

"So do I, despite the fact that they're always at my expense," the goblin chuckled, lightening the mood. "Usually, Lester's the type to either sit there – like the stump you so aptly named him – and look intimidating, or get in your face and roughly spout off every legal procedure and hurtle we can do to you unless you comply. You wouldn't _believe_ how fast he can make people cave under pressure."

Having seen that gruff face up close, not to mention the sharpness of the litigator's mind, Harry was glad to have him looking out for _his_ interests rather than arrayed against him.

"He was brought in to this because of his past familiarity with the Potters and the Potter Account," the goblin explained. "He would've been on the war path if he hadn't been, and that's _exactly_ the kind of litigator you need. Get him around a Potter though–" Barchoke made a dismissive gesture, "and _apparently_ that 'professional wall,' as he calls it, disappears entirely. Definitely not the impression I was hoping to give by bringing you to an Overseer's office," he finished self–deprecatingly.

The appraising look entered his eye again.

"You seemed to get him there at the end though, _Mr. Potter_," the Overseer said, emphasizing that last part. "Maybe his case won't be so hard to make with you. Got a bit of a _spine_ to you, don't you?"

Harry gave an embarrassed shrug.

"Well don't let it go to your head," the Overseer warned quickly. "We may be _bankers_ more than warriors nowadays, but our guards practice the _old_ ways, and _they_ don't have a sense of humor _at all_."

Harry was reminded of the panic in Gropegold's eyes as they dragged him away screaming, and wondered what was happening to the treacherous goblin now. He probably didn't want to know.

"You try out there–," Barchoke waved towards the door, "–what Lichfield did in here and you're liable to get yourself killed, and that would make everything we've done here–"

"–_Irrelevant_," Harry said. "Yeah, he told me."

"There was a lot of legal talk too," Barchoke fingered his files again, as if looking for a way to stall. "He and I have been dealing with this kind of stuff for years. You might be lost. Anything you didn't understand?"

"I think I got the basics," Harry said. "I was born in the magical world, to magical parents, and _never_ should've been placed with the Dursleys. The fact that I _was_," Harry felt his anger rise, "tells you that the Ministry appointed a guardian to watch out for me. That _guardian_ is the one who left me with my aunt and uncle and has been in control of my account since my parents died."

Barchoke nodded. "What else?"

"Something _funny_ happened to the last Account Manager and Gropegold took over," Harry recited. "This guardian has been using him to steal money from my account. We've Sealed the account, which stops him from doing anything more–" Harry stopped. "But you still haven't said _how_ Gropegold was stealing and where all the money went," he told the Overseer.

"Oh, we didn't?" Barchoke perked up. "Personally, I find it _fascinating_."

Having picked up on the goblin's love of procedures and files anything _he_ found fascinating would probably have him stuck in this office for what felt like another _week_.

"Just the basics will be fine," Harry said quickly.

"Oh, well, it's pretty straight forward then," the goblin said. "Take today, for instance. We have a large transfer from your account to a do–gooder charity, a wizarding institution, and large phony investments into muggle companies."

"Why would they give money to a charity?" Harry asked. "I thought he'd keep it all."

"Same here, but that's what has Lichfield thinking that this guardian is some high society type. Someone who likes to be _seen_ doing good works – all the while they're stealing from a _child_ to do it."

The Overseer checked his files again.

"Something called the – The Hogwarts Hopefuls," the goblin said. "We've never even _heard_ of them," the goblin explained. "Probably some program set up to help graduating students find jobs. I'll never understand this human thing of doing something for nothing. _That_ stops now. They'll just have to get jobs _on their own_," the Overseer said definitively.

"Is there anything that ties things to Hogwarts _directly?"_ Harry asked, already thinking he knew the answer.

"Yes, but this one's not that uncommon," the goblin said. "At least it didn't use to be. Another large transfer was due for the Hogwarts Operational Fund."

Barchoke noticed the confused look on Harry's face.

"It's the account that handles the day–to–day spending for the school. They seem to be the biggest beneficiary from the Transfer Orders that were supposed to be processed today."

"And why would _Hogwarts_ need all that money?" Harry said harshly, his anger at the Headmaster seeping through into his tone.

"At this point in the year, they shouldn't need it at all," the goblin said.

"Yeah, why would a _school_ need money during the summer?"

"Oh, no. It's not that," the Overseer said. "It's that today is the first day of the school year."

"Wait, no it's not," Harry said.

"Yes it is," the goblin said confused.

"No, it's _not_," Harry said stubbornly.

_"__Yes, _it is," the goblin said just as stubbornly back.

"Term doesn't begin until September the first," Harry declared.

"Aha!" the goblin said triumphantly. _"Term_ doesn't begin until September, but the _fiscal year_ starts today," he said with a grin. "Their account should be _flowing_ with gold at the moment, so why would this _guardian_ donate to the Beggar's Circuit?"

"The Beggar's Circuit?"

"That's what your grandfather called it," Barchoke explained. "If Hogwarts goes over budget and needs the extra cash, the Headmaster will go around to rich old alumni to try and shake a little money out of them. Apparently this _guardian_ of yours thinks you're _really generous_."

Harry had always wondered what the Headmaster actually _did_ for the school. Apparently, before he started stealing money from his account, he had actually served a purpose.

"Just how _generous_ does he think I am?" Harry asked hotly.

"Take this transfer here for example," Barchoke said, holding up a piece of parchment. "To put it in terms you'd understand, these _Hopefuls_ were going to get enough gold to pay for twenty one _years_ of tuition."

"Twenty one–!"

_"__Years,"_ the goblin repeated.

"I'm paying for _twenty one people_ to go to school? That's enough for me and half my class!" Harry exclaimed, dreading the thought that he was paying for the likes of Malfoy.

"It's more than that when you consider that _your_ schooling was paid for in full before you were even born," the goblin laughed.

"Wait, you mean I _really did_ have my name down before I was born?" Harry asked.

"A really good investment strategy on your grandfather's part," Barchoke nodded. "Pay for it in bulk _now_ so if the price goes up it doesn't affect you. I've recommended the same be done to everyone I oversee. Most have seen the logic of doing it at least once."

"So what is Hogwarts _doing_ with all this money?" Harry asked, his love for the castle waning by the minute.

"Honestly, I couldn't say," the goblin told him.

"And why not?"

"Because I don't know," Barchoke held up his hands. "I oversee Hereditary Accounts. As long as they seem to make money and the Account–Holder doesn't complain, I can't look into things. _Hogwarts_, however, is a completely separate department unto itself. All staffed by _humans_," he finished with a grumble.

"A _human_ Overseer?" Harry asked, rather confused at the concept.

"Just the _one_," Barchoke explained. "About a hundred years ago a particularly _loathsome_ Headmaster, _we_ call Phineas the Foul, refused to have anything to do with goblins and threatened to have Hogwarts to do all its banking _itself_. Rather than fight him on it, the Grand Overseer at the time decided to set Hogwarts up as a separate department and man it by humans to placate him."

"That's awful," Harry said.

"Well, that's Phineas–," the Overseer stopped, his eyes popping. "My apologies, I didn't mean to offend you," he said to Harry.

"Why would _that_ offend me?" Harry asked confused. "He sounds like a racist old git."

"He _also_ happens to be your grandmother's grandfather," Barchoke explained.

At that moment Harry could have heard a pin drop.

"Oh," Harry said. He had never thought that any of his family could've been so bad as to be called Foul. _'Then again,'_ Harry thought to himself, _'the _Dursleys_ are certainly foul and they're a lot closer to me than some grandmother's grandfather.'_

"So," Harry said to get things going again. "How do you know they're phony muggle investments?"

"Because we _can't _invest in the muggle world," the Overseer said simply.

"Wait – Really?"

"You have _any idea_ what would happen if wizarding gold flooded the world market?" Barchoke asked. "It'd be worse than what happened six hundred years ago. We'd be lucky if things took a _hundred years_ to work itself out! Gropegold probably thought he was being clever by not exchanging the Galleons for Pounds. _That_ much of an exchange would have gotten him caught for sure. We'll track it down. If there's one thing Gringotts is good at it's following the money."

Harry looked back out to the view of both magical and muggle London.

"Then how can you stand to look out there?" Harry asked. "There must be hundreds of businesses in London alone that you could be investing in."

"Exactly," Barchoke said. "We built this bank up so high to give _every goblin in management_ a view of what's been denied us. That's the price that comes from overplaying your hand. That's why we're being cautious."

Harry stared out the curved window again for a while, wondering what it'd be like to see another world day–after–day and never be able to touch it. To be locked inside one building and one street. _'It'd be like being back in the cupboard under the stairs,_' Harry thought. _'Only to look out of the grate and see Hogwarts, knowing I'll never be able to get there._'

Barchoke cleared his throat and Harry turned back to him.

"Are you – are you sure you want to see him?" Barchoke asked. "The last Account Manager, Hammerhand. There's nothing you can do."

"If Lichfield's right, then he was probably attacked because he refused to help this _guardian_ steal money from my dead parents," Harry said. "The least I can do is go and see him."

Barchoke nodded and rose from his seat, taking his Concealer with him.

"On the way, I can explain why we'd like this rental agreement," the goblin smiled.

_'__Oh joy,_' Harry thought as the two left the room together.

.o0O0o.

Ginny Weasley smiled as she reached her favorite part of her favorite book.

_Harry's eyes blazed like brilliant emerald suns. His gaze seemed to reach into the very heart of her, warming her, claiming her. His strong arms circled around her in a protective embrace._

_"__Oh Harry, you're so brave!" the red–haired girl exclaimed. Her bodice was ripped and torn from the Monster's heinous claws, her bosom heaving as she seemed to breathe for the first time since he left to do battle with the fearsome beast._

_"__I thought that you'd surely be killed!" she cried, crushing herself against the strong masculine form of her savior._

_"__Never, while you still live," Harry said as he smiled. Oh, how he smiled a smile that seemed to fill the entirety of the Chamber itself with warmth._

_"__Not even Slytherin's fearsome beast could keep me from you," Harry said softly. "And with mighty Gryffindor's help, I've slain the beast, and no one will ever need to fear from it again."_

_The girl looked down to the sword on Harry's hip; its brilliant rubies seemed to radiate the fire of Harry's love for her until they shone with the very color of her hair._

_"__Oh Harry."_

_'__Oh Harry,_' Ginny thought as she snapped the book shut and clutched it to her heart. _'One day he'll come,_' she said to herself. _'One day my Harry will come for me.'_

"Hello there, Weasley family?" a strange rough voice called from somewhere near causing her to jump in fright.

"Wh–who's there?" the red–headed girl called.

"I'm Litigator Lichfield of Gringotts Bank, and I'm looking for the Weasley residence."

Ginny scrambled from her seat at the old dining room table and raced her way to the fireplace, slightly slipping on the smooth wooden floor. She tightened her bath robe around her. There, sure enough, was an old grizzled face staring up at her from the fire.

_'__It's hard to tell his face from the other logs on the fire,_' she thought to herself. Quickly she gave herself a mental kick. _'That's not the way Harry's beloved behaves,_' she reminded herself. _'She's always polite and demure.'_

"This is the Burrow," she said to the man, hoping she came off as polite. "I'm Ginny Weasley. My mother's out back, do I need to get her?"

"Not necessary," the man said. "You can tell me what I need to know. Is this the home of a lad named Ron Weasley, or is there another place I should look?"

"Yes, he's here," Ginny said, confused. "What would a litigator need with my brother? Is he in trouble?" Ginny asked smiling. She _loved_ getting her brothers in trouble.

"Not at all. Just confirming the location," the strange litigator said. "I call on behalf of a _certain client_ of mine, a client that your brother invited to stay with your family this summer."

"Invited to stay?" the girl asked. "The only person Ron's asked to stay was–." Suddenly her eyes went wide and she turned as pale as a sheet. "Oh, Merlin!"

"Yep," the rough old man said. "This is the place. He'll be there shortly."

With that the man's head disappeared from the fire with a _pop_.

_'__Oh Merlin!'_ Ginny thought to herself. _'Harry's coming. And he's got a _litigator_. He's going to ask dad for my bride price!'_

The little girl ran to her room to get ready for what was sure to be the most important day in her young life.

.o0O0o.

Harry opened the door slowly, not knowing what he'd find. Barchoke had said that his old boss, Hammerhand, had been kept to an office by himself and away from the goblins that lived below ground after his family had managed to win compensation from the bank for his injury. He had also warned him that the familiarity Hammerhand had with his family might cause a bit of distress, so he should be mindful to play along.

What he hadn't expected was the sheer number of papers strewn about the room. Parchment was stuck to every available surface, some with large strange symbols, others with rows of numbers, while others had pictures of animals in various states of dress. Stags and snakes seemed particularly popular. Snakes with beards.

A goblin with thin wisps of white hair sticking up in every direction sat at the completely cluttered desk and was clothed in a thin dirty robe that reminded him forcefully of Dobby. Hammerhand seemed intent on his latest picture. The sound of the door must have alerted him for it was less than half open when the mad old goblin looked directly at him.

"James!" Hammerhand cried, mistaking Harry for his father. The goblin quickly ran around the desk to take his hand and sending papers fluttering along behind him. "Come in, come in!" the goblin said with a mad grin as he pulled him into the room. "Here, take a seat and tell me what's been going on."

Hammerhand tossed a stack of parchment out of the room's single visitor's chair and plopped Harry down upon it.

"Here for a bit of spending money, eh?" the old goblin said jovially. "You'll not get a knut without your father's say if you've gone over your allowance, young man," he laughed. Harry looked into his eyes, the lights there dim and disjointed.

"How are you feeling, Hammerhand?" Harry asked.

"Oh, fine, fine. Can't complain," the old goblin replied with a wan smile and vacant face.

The old Account Manager looked down at the shoebox in Harry's hands and tutted.

"James, James," he said. "A present? You've gone to _presents_ now? I've told you before, new robes and a flashy broom is no way to woo a witch. Certainly not a witch worth wooing. _Please_ don't tell me that's for her."

"Er – No, sir," Harry said, thinking quickly. "It's for my father."

"Oh yes," Hammerhand said somberly. _"Terrible_ thing, that. I suppose anything that makes them happy in what time they have remaining–."

The dam finally broke and Hammerhand started to wail.

"Why, James, why?" the old goblin balled, clutching to the front of Harry's robes as tears ran down its cheeks. "Why did they have to die?"

"It's – It's okay," Harry tried to comfort the distressed old goblin. "It's just their time."

Harry looked over to Barchoke, silently asking for help.

"Too old!" Hammerhand wept. "Too old, too soon."

Barchoke reached down to the floor and picked up a stack of the parchment that Hammerhand had sent flying to make room for Harry to sit.

"Sir," Barchoke said eagerly as if he had just come in. "I've got that _file_ you wanted to see."

As quickly as that the old goblin was back to the way he was before his outburst.

"File? Oh! Barchoke! Come in," Hammerhand said. "Where have you been? Go make yourself useful and get young James here some tea."

"I'd love to, sir," Barchoke said, playing along. "Lichfield wants me to run him through something in Legal first though."

"Hm? Legal?" Hammerhand asked with a finger to his lips, looking for a moment very much like Barchoke. "Yes, I suppose it must be important if Lichfield's harping on about it. Very dedicated man there. We can catch up when you get done, James," he said to Harry and patted him on the arm. "And we can work on this _Lily_ problem of yours. Throwing money about is not the way to get her. You just have to be _you_, James. That should be enough for her."

It was with a knot in the stomach that Harry realized that the old goblin had been talking about his mother the whole time.

"I'll keep that in mind, sir," Harry said.

Harry turned to go but Hammerhand grabbed him his robes and held him close, so they were eye–to–eye. The goblin might've been old but his grip was as iron hard as his name implied and his eyes were no longer dim but sharp with a different kind of madness.

"I tried to warn them," Hammerhand said gruffly. "But they wouldn't _see_."

"Sir?" Harry asked as he tried to peel the old goblin's hands off him.

"The figures and the sums," the Account Manager whispered. "They're not there. The snake. The snake took them! I don't like him! He _took_ them!"

"I don't like him either, sir," Harry said, seeing one of the snake pictures on the wall. A snake with a long white beard.

"I tried to _warn_ them," the goblin said again as Barchoke tried to separate them. "But they were as dumb as a door!"

"Sir!" Barchoke shouted. "Legal? James needs to go to _Legal_ now."

Hammerhand's grip relaxed.

"Legal? Yes, yes," the goblin said with a wave. "Then why is he still here? I swear, Barchoke, you must be more diligent."

Hammerhand took up a handful of parchment and returned to his desk as Harry and Barchoke slipped back outside. Just as the door closed there came a cry from the other side. "As dumb as a door!"

"So you find what you were looking for?" a gruff voice asked behind him.

Harry turned to see Lichfield standing by the wall.

"Yes," Harry said. "I know who has the Key."

"We're really going to feel as dumb as a door when you tell us, aren't we?" Barchoke asked, his Concealer back in his hand.

"You could say that," Harry said.

.o0O0o.

The flames died down as the floo connection closed and the Overseer grew concerned.

"Do you think we should have warned him about the Weasleys?" he asked Lichfield as he fiddled with his Concealer, the salsa dancers it contained again giving him no comfort. He knew what his answer would've been if the question had been asked to him instead. "He should know, but I saw that look you had."

"It's better that he _not _know. He's friends with them. It's best that he's just himself for a while."

"He'll be embarrassed," Barchoke said.

"He'll be _humble,_ and they'll know he's sincere. If they're going to take him seriously they've got to get to know _him_ and what that means for the future."

"I know you're right on that," the goblin said. "It's what Charlus would've done. I think James would have told him though."

"You could never tell with James," Lester said. "He grew up. Especially if what your father says is true. And he grew cautious. Perhaps _too _cautious. How did your father take seeing him, by the way?"

"Remarkably well," Barchoke replied. "He only cried once, but it was a short visit."

"Part of me hopes I'm right about him. The same part that hopes that Harry's wrong."

"I know the feeling. He's put together more than enough to get us a peek at–" even with the Concealer the goblin looked around and didn't dare use the name. "–at _his_ file. But if we don't see anything there won't be anything we can do."

"And _he_," Lichfield said, sharing his friend's caution, "hasn't been sloppy enough to leave anything around that could be easily traced back to himself. No one around him will be easy to interview without tipping him off either. Until we can tear down the protections around Hogwarts itself we may not find anything."

"The fact that Harry picked up on all that is remarkable," Barchoke said. "Worthy of _your _old line of work."

Lichfield nodded with a grunt.

"Did you see the way he took charge?" the goblin asked. "I was not expecting that."

Lichfield chose not to comment.

"He must have known that he wouldn't be able to control everything once Harry entered Hogwarts," Barchoke continued. "But the depth of secrecy here, I haven't seen anything like it since You–Know–Who. I blame this on you. Damn you for always saying you wanted to go after someone _intelligent_. I prefer my criminals to be dumber than dragon droppings."

Lichfield turned to go.

"Where are you going?" the goblin scurried after him. "We've got a file to look at."

_"__You _look at the file, there won't be anything there," the old bailiff said as the goblin tried to keep up with him. "I'm going track down whoever conducted the Knight Bus today and confirm where Harry was picked up–."

"We _know _where he lived, he have his address. And the coin will show–"

"Thoroughness," Lichfield interrupted. "That's how we'll win this thing. I'm interviewing them, this Cadogan man," he gestured with the box that contained Harry's old shoes that was supposed to be a gift for the shoemaker. "–And whoever altered his robes this morning. That was a Hogwarts cut or I'm some flirty French flipskirt. I'm documenting every step that boy took since the time he started to walk."

"He said he didn't want the Dursleys involved."

"Then I'll interview everyone else on that street if I have to. I'm not having anyone say that the wrong person locked down his Account or bewitched him to do it."

"–You think someone would – How do you even _think _these things?" the Overseer asked coming to a halt.

"Vigilance!" the Litigator cried as his long stride carried him away.

.o0O0o.

After trying on two others – a light blue that was said to be Harry's favorite, and a green for the color of his eyes – Ginny had picked a light, white sundress with pale flowers that she hoped would make her look bride–like. She looked at herself in the mirror. Had she always been so pale? Ginny pinched her cheeks to bring more color to them.

She looked at the small clock on her desk. Harry should be here any minute. Ginny had no idea exactly _when_ he would arrive, but she had to assume the worst. She had hoped to have time to pick flowers for an impromptu bouquet – wildflowers to suit her nature – but now didn't think she'd have the time. _'I've _got_ to make a good impression,_' she reminded herself for the thousandth time. Maybe she should change back to the blue?

_'__No,_' she thought. White's good, white's pure, white's virtuous._ 'White makes me look so pale_,' she whined to herself.

Deciding it was too late to change _again,_ Ginny darted out of her room.

"Oi!" Her brother Ron said as she knocked him into the banister on the stairs. "Watch it! Where are you going all dressed up?"

"Nowhere, go away," Ginny groused as she headed to the kitchen.

Ron may have invited Harry but she certainly didn't want him to ruin this for her. Today was the day she fixed what went wrong last year at the train station. _'Gone is the little girl,_' she thought. _'Today I'm a young woman._'

George whistled when she entered.

"Will you take a look at her?" he asked, tossing a Quaffle back and forth from hand to hand.

"What's got you all gussied up? Lil' miss expecting a suitor?" Fred asked hefting a beater's bat threateningly.

"What? No!" she said a little too quickly before shooting them a look that said _Don't you dare threaten my Harry._

"Oh boys, _honestly_," her mother said, coming through the kitchen with a load of wash to hang on the line outside. "It's not a crime for a girl to look _nice_ from time to time. Leave her alone."

"Thanks, mum," Ginny said embarrassed, wishing they would all leave the room too.

She may never understand why her mother insisted with line drying the wash when magic was more convenient, no matter how often she said it _smelled clean_. At least it got her out of the room. Ginny thought she'd make a horrible housewife. _'I can learn,_' she thought to herself. _'I can learn for Harry. But I have to get him first._'

Ron came through with another beater's bat in hand and her brothers turned to go with identical shakes of their twin heads. Ginny shook hers right back. If Ron thought he was going to be anything other than target practice for their Bludgers today then he was sadly mistaken.

Before they could even reach the back door the fireplace flared to life like a brilliant emerald sun.

_'__This is it!'_ Ginny thought as suddenly all the air seemed to leave the room at once. She felt light–headed. _'Don't pass out. Don't pass out,_' she chanted to herself as her entire world seemed to narrow to only that bright green flame.

Harry Potter stepped jaunting out of the flames in his stylish shoes as he shook off the dust of his latest adventure. Wind seemed to ripple around him as the flames died down; his handsome robes billowed behind him.

"Harry?" twin voices asked astonished.

"Bloody hell!" Ron exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

"You invited me," Harry smiled.

_'__Oh how he smiles,_' Ginny thought as she gazed in wonder at the dream made flesh.

"Why didn't you tell us you were coming?" Ron asked, still perplexed. "Did dad come and get you?"

"No, I came from Gringotts," Harry explained. "Didn't Lichfield tell you I'd be here?"

"Not to us he didn't," George said, giving Ginny a look.

_'__Lichfield_,' Ginny thought as she tried to catch her breath. _'Lichfield the litigator. He should be right behind._'

"Mum! Harry's here!" Ron called to her.

She eyed the fireplace apprehensively as the others talked. _'Oh why couldn't dad be here so this could be done with?'_ she lamented, eager to start her new life as a soon–to–be–wife.

"Did someone say Harry?" her mother asked as she came back inside. "Oh, Harry! It's so good to see you…"

Moments passed and still no one else had arrived. Was there something wrong with their floo?

"Merlin!" her mother cried. "I've got the wash still on the line." She bolted back outside to hide the offensive laundry from their company. Ginny didn't know how much more embarrassment she could take.

_'__Please don't let this go wrong!'_

"Ginny!" her mother cried. "Ginny, come get your knickers!"

Ginny's world went black and she vaguely had the sense of falling. The poor girl fell to the floor with a _thump._

.o0O0o.

**AN:** Well, he's out of the room and Ginny's been floored so I think I'll leave it there for now.

Thanks for reading.


	7. Borrowed

**AN:** So much happens in this chapter in terms of character development that it will make it much longer than the others, but it's probably the best I've written so far.

.o0O0o.

The swirl movement and the smell of ash was disorienting. Something bumped into his elbow hard causing it to go numb. Closing his eyes to avoid the worst of the nausea wizards seemed to think went hand–in–hand with traveling, Harry managed not to lose his lunch; not that he had _had_ lunch. In the hours he spent in Gringotts lunch had been completely forgotten, and now Harry was glad for it. If he had anywhere to go in the wizarding world from now on, he was going to make sure not to eat anything the entire day before.

Just as he was beginning to forget which way was up, Harry felt a great swell of heat and the sensation of being pushed. Remembering what Lichfield had said, Harry relaxed and just went with it. His feet hit solid ground again, the polished wooden floor threatening to make him slip. Harry's shoes held firm though and he silently thanked the odd shoemaker for their 'plenty of grip.' After the flippy elevator of Gringotts, Harry thought he could handle anything.

The last gout of flame caused his robe to blow up around him, kicking up a bit of ash that had somehow settled on him on his way through the fire. Harry brushed off what he could as he took in the surprised faces of his three favorite redheads.

"Harry?" twin voices asked astonished.

"Bloody hell!" Ron exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

"You invited me," Harry smiled; amused that he could have forgotten.

"Why didn't you tell us you were coming?" Ron asked, still perplexed. "Did Dad come and get you?"

"No, I came from Gringotts," Harry explained. "Didn't Lichfield tell you I'd be here?" he asked, gesturing to the fire he'd just stepped out of.

"Not to us he didn't," one of the twins said.

Ron ran to the door of what appeared to be a very warm and homey kitchen.

"Mum! Harry's here!" Ron called to her.

"Traveling a bit light there, don't you think?" the other twin asked with a smile. Harry thought it was Fred.

"Actually, no," Harry said, somewhat embarrassed. "I might need to talk to your parents about that."

"Did someone say Harry?" a stout, cheery–faced red–headed woman asked as she came inside. "Oh, Harry! It's so good to see you," she said, recognizing him from the station the year before. "Sorry things are a bit of a mess," she said to him quietly. "Just in the middle of a good cleaning."

"Oh, that's fine by me," Harry said.

"Oh, Merlin!" Mrs. Weasley cried, her hand going to her mouth in shock. "I've got the wash still on the line." She bolted back outside to hide the offensive laundry from their company.

"Our mother–," the twin he thought was George said with a shake of his head.

"–Completely mental," the twin he thought was Fred finished for him, his voice a bit louder to drown out whatever it was his mother called from outside.

There was a heavy _thump_ to his right. Harry looked over and saw a spray of red hair coming out of a flowery dress and a girl on the floor where she had collapsed. He hadn't even noticed her.

"Oh look!" George said to Harry with cheeky grin as he and Fred went to check on her. "Our sister's fallen for you."

"Does she do that often?" Harry asked, concerned for the youngest Weasley's health.

"Only for guys she _really_ likes," Fred joked as they helped the fallen Weasley to the living room sofa.

"Mum!" Ron yelled from the door. "I think Ginny's fainted."

Mrs. Weasley quickly returned with a basket full of laundry, a thick towel serving as a cover to hide what was inside.

"She _fainted_? What do you mean she fainted? Ginny doesn't–." Mrs. Weasley's eyes sought out her daughter before bouncing back and forth between her and Harry. "Yes, well," Mrs. Weasley covered. "That can sometimes happen."

It took some time for some time for the girl to recover. Harry thought she might be sick as well, she was so very pale.

"Nah," Ron assured him. "She always looks like that. Well, not the dress. Usually she just loafs around in her bathrobe."

"Yeah," George said. "Don't know _what_ she was thinking–"

"–Why would _today_ be special?" Fred finished with a look to Harry.

Ginny was laying on the sofa with a cool cloth on her forehead when she finally came around.

"Oh, Mum," the girl said groggily. "I had the most wonderful dream. My Harry had come and–"

_"Ginny, we have company_," Mrs. Weasley said, cutting off the rest of her daughter's sentence.

Harry leaned out from around her brothers to get a better look.

"Hello," was all he said.

Little Ginny turned beet red.

_'Well there's the color_,' Harry thought to himself.

"Ron, Fred, George," their mother said as way of reprimand. "Why's Harry still standing around? Go help him take his stuff upstairs."

"We tried," Ron said.

"Unless he's got it hidden in his pockets, he's got nothing with him." George explained.

"Apparently he sleeps _starkers_," Fred said with a glance to his sister as she turned to try to bury herself into the folds of the couch.

"I needed to talk to you about that, Mrs. Weasley," an embarrassed Harry said. "I've actually got a lot stuff that's going to be delivered. I hope you don't mind."

"Delivered? Oh, not to worry, dear," the cheerful woman said with a wave. "Ron's got plenty of room. We'll make do."

"Thanks, Mrs. Weasley," Harry said, "but this is _a lot_ of stuff."

"What'd you do, buy out Madam Malkin's?" Fred asked with a look at Harry's robes.

"Not exactly."

"He could always use one of Bill or Charlie's old rooms," Ron said.

"Absolutely not," his mother replied. "They might decide to pop by for the weekend and then where would we be?"

"If they planned to _pop by_–," George said.

"–They wouldn't have moved so far away," Fred finished.

Harry was trying to think of a way to get the magnitude of the problem across when a clock chimed and Mrs. Weasley scurried over to take a look.

"That'll be Arthur," she said as she moved. "Wonder what's going on, he's _never_ home this early."

Harry followed her, eager to get a look at a magical home. From somewhere behind him, Harry heard a door close. Glancing back to the couch, it seemed that the girl had disappeared up to her room.

What Mrs. Weasley was so interested in turned out to be a very unusual clock, it had a multitude of hands and no numbers at all, written around the edge were things like _Time to make tea_, _Time to feed the chickens_, and _You're late_. The hand labeled _Arthur_ was pointed directly at _Work_, it was another hand that was moving.

"It's _Bill_!" Mrs. Weasley exclaimed, heading for the door to the garden.

"What's _he_ doing here?" George asked.

"He's hardly ever in range," Fred commented.

Bill, who Harry knew to be the oldest of the Weasley brothers, had bounced on the clock from _Traveling_ to _Work_, back to _Traveling_, before finally landing at _Home_.

"Hey Weasleys!" a voice called from outside.

Harry arrived at the garden just in time to see Mrs. Weasley almost knock a young man over in her rush to hug him. The man himself came as a bit of a shock. _'This is the Weasley from Gringotts?'_ Harry wondered. He had heard that Bill had been Head Boy during his time at Hogwarts and had imagined him to be an older version of Percy: fussy about rule–breaking and fond of bossing everyone around.

While Harry would never classify the man as _"dreamy_," as the secretaries had, Bill was nonetheless _cool_ – at least he would have been if he wasn't being hugged around the neck by his mother. He was tall, with long hair that he had tied back in a ponytail, and was wearing an earring with what looked like a fang dangling from it – a new addition if his mother's expression was anything to go by. Bill's clothes would not have looked out of place at a rock concert, except that Harry recognized that his boots weren't made of leather, but of dragon hide. He wondered if Cadogan had made them.

"Did you buy new furniture from someone dodgy?" Bill asked once he was free of his mother's clutches.

"Now where would we get the money for new furniture, let alone meet someone dodgy?" a confused Mrs. Weasley asked.

Now that the spectacle of Bill had faded, Harry noticed that the young man wasn't alone. He had brought a small horde of goblins with him. Two of them had his trunk between them, another had Hedwig's cage, four had his wardrobe, _eight_ were carrying his bed, and in a blur of movement one went flying off randomly upwards – only to fall back down to earth again ten feet away from where he had started. It seemed as if Harry's broom had been a _bit_ too eager to be off.

"Mr. Potter?" the goblin in charge said as it marched up to the only non–redhead in sight and Bill launched into the story of his strange journey to muggle land. "Retrieval Specialist Dirtclaw, I've got something for you from Overseer Barchoke."

From the inside of the goblin's scarlet coat came a small hard–backed eyeglass case; inside was his very own Blood Quill.

"The Overseer said to keep that on you at all times. Litigator Lichfield said for you to hide it until you need it and to clean it regularly," the goblin recited. "I'll leave it to you to decide how to match those up. You also get this," he said, taking out a small leather–bound book full of tiny forms.

"And these are?" Harry asked.

"Your cheques," Dirtclaw explained. "The Overseer said you'd understand what to do, based on the additional security requirements of your account."

_'Of course_,' Harry thought. _'Sealed with Blood and Magic. For the cheques to be good they'd need them both_.'

"Right," Harry said as he stuffed both case and book into his pockets. "Thanks."

"You also need to sign this," Dirtclaw said, producing a clipboard with built in inkwell and quill holder, "to show you've received your belongings."

As Bill was busy keeping the other Weasleys distracted by pantomiming a confrontation between what looked to be a walrus and a herd of goblins – which didn't look to be going well for the walrus – Harry made his quick scratch with the Blood Quill, signed his name with the other, and covertly drew his wand to add his magical signature to the form.

Fred, George, and Ron broke out in laughter as the walrus went down for the count. Mrs. Weasley looked torn between whether to reprimand or be amused. If the look on Bill's face was anything to go by, Harry didn't think the Dursleys had a pleasant afternoon at all. _'Serves them right_,' Harry thought.

"Right then," Dirtclaw said. "Where do you want the tub?"

"The _tub_?" Harry asked, thinking for one crazy moment that the goblins had ripped out the Dursleys bathtub. _'That had _not_ been on any form that I had signed_,' Harry thought to himself, though he supposed Lichfield might have added it on there as some sort of joke.

"The tub," Dirtclaw repeated. "The one with your clothes," he explained, pointing to the small group of goblins struggling to haul a glossy white metal contraption trailing tubes and a trickle of water behind it.

Harry broke down laughing. The goblins had stolen Aunt Petunia's prized washing machine.

.o0O0o.

For the first time in his life, Harry was excited to be in his room. While the furniture was the same as the day before, this was a very different room. For one, it was in the Burrow, the home of the Weasley family, and for another – the room just _felt_ free. Everything about it just shouted freedom to him, and Harry didn't mind in the least that it was a hand–me–down.

With an entire bedroom set to accommodate, Mrs. Weasley had been forced to admit that more than just a corner of Ron's room would be necessary to get all of Harry's things to fit into the house. Bill had volunteered his old room and quickly moved to shrink all of his old stuff down to take with him before his mother could voice her objections. She had drawn the line at the washing machine though. _That_ remained right where it was, on the ground _outside_.

He had been surprised that Hedwig had turned up as well. Apparently she'd been resting up in Ron's room to make the trip back to Surrey, so she was already there when he arrived. Harry was glad that she understood how crazy his day had been and that he hadn't meant to make her take the trip in vain, he just didn't know he'd be coming.

The guys had been eager to show him their makeshift Quidditch pitch or for Harry to join them in hearing Bill's exploits as a Curse-breaker for Gringotts, but he had begged off saying that he had just about enough of Gringotts as he could stand for one day and just wanted to get settled in. This was how Harry found himself sitting at his own desk, in his own room – and faced with the most uncomfortable part of his day so far.

How was he supposed to start his letter to Hermione?

_'"Dear Hermione"?'_ he wondered._ 'No, that sounds like I'm down on one knee with a bouquet of flowers_.' He discarded that idea.

_'Just a simple "Hermione"?'_ Harry considered that one a moment. _'That one reminds me of how she signed that second letter_,' he finally realized. The last thing this letter was supposed to do was tell her that he didn't like her.

_'How about, "Hey, Hermione"?'_ Harry asked himself. _'It's not distant like just "Hermione" is, because she's still our friend, but it's not_ too _friendly or showering her with flower petals and chocolates_.' Harry nodded his head. That could work.

He dipped his quill in the inkwell and took a breath, readying himself to start. Quill poised over the parchment, his hands refused to move. They'd gone cold and numb, like they'd been turned to ice. Harry shook them to get his blood pumping again, sending ink splattering all over the place. He sighed, head slumping to the desk. _'Why did this have to be so hard?'_

Cautiously, Harry retrieved his wand. Straining to hear if anyone was nearby, he whispered a spell he remembered Hermione using when Ron had gotten ink all over his homework last year. The splattered ink now safely sucked up into his wand, Harry dashed over to the window to look for any incoming owls in the fading afternoon light.

As the minutes passed by Harry began to think that Lichfield was right, maybe the Ministry _couldn't_ tell that he had done magic after all._ 'Still_,' Harry thought to himself. _'I'm going to have to keep what I do small, just so that I'm not found out. If Fred and George found out about that legal loophole they'd go _nuts_ and it'd be all over Hogwarts in half a second.'_ The Harold part of him said,_ 'For homework use only, young man.'_

_'Won't Hermione be surprised when we get to school and I already know some of the spells,_' the Harry part of him said with a grin._ 'That'd definitely make holding off on magic the rest of the time worthwhile_,' he thought. Studying did have its upside.

He sat back down at the desk and refilled his quill with ink, before he could write a thing though there was a knock on the door and Ron stuck his head inside.

"Hey, Harry, you hungry?"

"Starved," he answered, more in the hope that once food was in front of him his stomach would remember that he hadn't eaten since breakfast.

"Good," Ron said as he came the rest of the way inside. "Mum's going _nuts_ downstairs. Apparently having you and Bill here is reason enough to throw a party."

"She doesn't have to go through all that trouble," Harry said, not wanting to be even more of a bother than he already had been.

"Well," Ron said sheepishly, running a hand through his hair and not quite looking at him. "I _did_ lay it on a bit thick about your birthday. Looks like she wants to make up for _all_ _of them_."

Harry smiled. A belated Burrow birthday was definitely something worth writing about. _'Hermione could wait a _little_ longer_,' he decided.

Dinner was certainly a lively affair and Harry ate eagerly, his appetite coming back with a vengeance. Mrs. Weasley prompted him to get seconds and he had to tell her he was already on _thirds_. Word must've gotten around to Mr. Weasley that his son had come in from Egypt because he had rushed straight home, exploding toilets be damned. As excited as he was to see his eldest boy again he was positively _over the moon_ when Harry told him that he could have the washing machine. Apparently Mr. Weasley was quite the fan of muggle appliances.

While Ron, Fred, and George were talking about the latest Quidditch standings, and Percy lamented his time out of his room and presumably homework, Mr. Weasley kept Harry to his side all night – all the better for the man to pick his brain about all things muggle. Mrs. Weasley kept shooting her husband looks that said he was being rude and kept trying to get her daughter to join her brothers' conversation. The girl, though, had obviously decided that the best course of action was to avoid being seen entirely. To be honest, Harry didn't mind. It just didn't seem right to be the object of one girl's attention when there was another one he wanted to talk to instead.

"So Harry," Bill said, cutting through his father's muggle talk as they passed around pieces of cake for dessert. "How is it that you've got a Litigator stalking the halls of Gringotts and an Overseer in charge of your account? I've _never_ seen that happen before."

"It's pretty simple, really," Harry said, wanting to brush past the subject as quickly as possible. "I had my money stolen."

Ron dropped his fork and the silence afterwards couldn't have been more complete if he had insulted their beloved grandparents or suggested that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were brother and sister.

"Those little blighters are stealing from you?" Ron asked disbelievingly.

"Those _little blighters_ are my bosses, Ron, and they take stealing _very_ seriously," Bill said with a stern look.

"How much did they get?" Fred asked.

"You got anything left?" seconded George.

"That's not really suitable for the dinner table," Mrs. Weasley cut in decisively with a look even worse than Bill's and promised harsh rebuke should anyone cross her.

After that conversation was a falsely _pleasant_ affair, full of grand plans for a series of two–on–two Quidditch games starting tomorrow while Bill told them what life in Cairo was like. Harry was actually glad for Mrs. Weasley's insistence on the matter. The last thing he wanted to do was repay their kindness by telling them that the kindly old grandfather of the wizarding world was nothing more than a crook that stole from children. Plus, until he had Barchoke's beloved _rental agreement_ signed and sealed, which he had said would take Lichfield _days_ to word in a way that no supposed _guardian_ could interfere with, there was too much of a risk that one of them would run off to get Dumbledore's side of the story, and _that_ would mess up the whole plan.

Ginny disappeared as soon as the party was over; hiding in her room as she had hidden behind her mother all night. Mrs. Weasley followed soon after, only pausing to hug Bill again and tell him to visit his poor old mother more often while her husband Arthur quickly slipped out to fiddle with his new washing machine as soon as his wife wasn't looking. The man was practically giggling with nervous energy. Harry thought he might be a little mad, at least when it came to muggle things.

Ron and the twins were all set to drag Harry away but Bill got his hands on him and sent them packing. Harry had been dreading this, but if Lichfield and the goblins were going to be publicly calling Dumbledore a thief then the least _he_ could do was stand up to Bill. He didn't even let the older boy get all the way through his first question before telling him in no uncertain terms that if he wanted to know anything then he could ask Barchoke and Lichfield _themselves_.

Bill grinned and said that the goblins must have rubbed off on him. Harry didn't know what to say to that but did try to make it up to him by politely asking if the mad old shoemaker in Diagon Alley had made his wonderful boots; turns out that he had, so at least they could swap stories on that.

"I heard what happened with Ginny after you arrived," Bill said, nervously fiddling with his ponytail as if to make sure it was still attached after how much his mother had complained about it during dinner. "You'll have to forgive her. Being the only girl in a house full of guys hasn't been easy for her. The only friend she's ever had outside the Burrow was a girl named Luna, and Mum put a stop to that a few years back."

"Why'd she do that?" Harry asked.

"You haven't seen how Mum can get," Bill said with a shake of his head. "Don't get me wrong, she's a great Mum, she just mothers you _too much_ sometimes and doesn't know when to stop. That's how Charlie and I wound up on other side of the continent," Bill chuckled. "Charlie's said that _dragons_ are easier to deal with than Mum. Anyway, Mum took exception to Mrs. Lovegood working from home and tried to tell her how to raise her daughter."

Harry winced.

"Yeah, that pretty much spelled the end of that," Bill explained. "Ever since then most of Ginny's friends have been in books."

"That's not such a bad thing," Harry said, thoughts turning back to Hermione. Her friendship with books had come in quite handy a number of times.

"That depends on what the books are _about_," Bill said meaningfully.

Harry had no idea what he meant by that, let alone what to _say_ to that.

"Well," Bill said, eyeing the stairs as he edged towards the door. "I'd better get out of here before Mum comes back down sees me still here. I wouldn't put it past her to lock me in my room. You may be _sleeping_ there tonight," he said with a grin, "-but in _her_ mind you're just borrowing it."

Harry walked him to the door; as long as he didn't try to treat him like a little kid, Bill was actually a pretty nice guy.

"'Til next time, Harry. Enjoy the room," Bill extended his hand to shake Harry's.

"I'll try not to let the twins blow it up," he replied, accepting the handshake.

Bill left with a grin and a wink, and a strange _pop_ as soon as the door was closed. Harry looked back outside but he was nowhere to be seen. He wondered if this was that _Apparition_ thing the old man on the bus talked about. _'Even if it's worse than the Knight Bus_,' Harry thought, _'-at least it's quicker_.'

Harry heard quick footfalls on the stairs.

"_Honestly_, Ginny, I don't know what you were _thinking_," an exasperated Mrs. Weasley said from the next room.

"Mum!" the girl cried quietly.

Harry quickly ducked out of sight in the kitchen and prayed that they stayed in the living room lest he embarrass the girl even further and she faint again.

"Oh, please, you heard them. They're all upstairs," Mrs. Weasley huffed. "But really, _bride price_, marriage contracts – you hadn't even _seen_ the boy before."

"I'd seen him–," Ginny said stubbornly.

"What, twice? And for all of a second? Plus, you're _ten years old_," the girl's mother reminded her.

"Eleven, in ten days," she said grumpily.

Mrs. Weasley sighed.

"I've told you before; these books are _much_ too old for you," she said as Harry inched closer. "They're nothing but romantic twaddle. Nothing like that's happened for _hundreds of years_! I thought I saw an end of this when I stopped you seeing that Lovegood girl."

"Luna didn't like them," Ginny sulked. "She called them _silly_."

"Leave it to _Loony_ Lovegood to be the _one_ of you with sense."

"She wasn't _loony_," the girl said angrily.

"No, you're right, _you are_," her mother countered. "Next you'll run up and _kiss_ him claiming _true love_ and _soul bonds_. Tell me, have you named your _children_ yet?"

"_Everyone_ knows what Harry's children will be named," the girl pouted. "James and Lily, after his parents."

_'That – that actually wasn't a bad idea_,' Harry thought to himself. _'Incredibly _creepy_ that the _entire wizarding world_ came up with this _ten years ago_, but still not a bad idea in and of itself.'_

"His kids will be named whatever the _real_ Harry wants them to be named," Mrs. Weasley said. "One could be named _Albus_ for all we know!"

_'Not bloody likely_,' Harry thought sourly.

"If you want to see real love, just look at me and your father. You think _we_ got together because of a _contract_?"

"They – Well – They're magically binding, so you might not be able to say even if you _had_."

"Absolute rubbish. And Binding? What, pray tell, happens should you break it then, hm?" her mother asked, taking the girl's fantasy to its ridiculous end.

"Well, you either die or lose your magic," the girl explained.

"And don't you see how _silly_ that is? You can't _lose_ magic any more than you can _give it away_," Mrs. Weasley explained. "And if people _died_ just from breaking their word, they'd be dropping left and right and _no one_ would be signing anything at all."

Harry saw how she was right. If something _that_ dire happened just from changing your mind or breaking your word, to say nothing of having something _bad_ happen where you _couldn't_ fulfill your side of a deal no matter _what_ you did, then no agreements could ever be _reached_, much less signed. Gringotts would have to shut its doors and magical society would just collapse.

"I'm sorry, Ginny, I _really_ am, but it's _past_ time for the books to go. You'll be going to Hogwarts this year, I can't have you dragging all that 'Boy-Who-Lived' nonsense up there with you."

"Wait – I – It's just – I'll miss _my_ Harry," the girl said sadly.

Mrs. Weasley sighed and he heard a heavy _thump_ of something being placed on the coffee table.

"I know you'll miss him, but _that_ Harry never existed, except in your head. Don't you see the _opportunity_ you have here? The _real_ Harry is right upstairs. He'll be staying with us all month and you'll be at Hogwarts together for six years. You may have been embarrassed today but he never even mentioned it and probably didn't even notice. The _least_ you can do is say 'hi' to the boy. Who knows? You might even be friends."

Harry wondered how he could _not_ have noticed how embarrassed the girl had been all day but saw what Mrs. Weasley was trying to do. It still didn't seem right to him, having another girl try to cozy up to him when there's already one who put herself forward. It just wasn't _right_ and he certainly didn't want to feel like he was stringing one along.

"How _can_ I be friends with him?" Ginny asked. "He'll kill him, I _know_ he will."

_'Kill him?'_ he thought.

"Kill him? Who'll kill him? Ginny, what are you talking about?" her mother asked.

"_That_ Harry. He'll _kill_ him, he'll kill _my_ Harry," the girl explained. "_That's_ the one I want – not _this_ one."

"And _that's_ the one that no one can ever have," Mrs. Weasley said. "_Your_ Harry, if he were here, and if he ever loved you the way you loved him, he'd _tell_ you that. He wouldn't _want_ you to waste away, waiting for something that can never happen. You can't live your life in your head, dear. He'd want you to move on, to live your life and make some _real_ friends. If it takes that nice young boy upstairs _killing_ the 'Boy-Who-Lived' to do it, then that's a _good_ thing in my book."

Harry was reminded forcefully of what Dumbledore had said to him in front of the Mirror of Erised last year. He didn't know if it made him hate the old man _less_ for having one _genuine_ moment with him, _suspicious_ that he was only there to pass him a tidbit of information to use against Voldemort later on, or _hate_ the old man even more for _not_ having ten whole years' worth of those kinds of moments to go along with that _one_.

_'Probably a bit of all three,'_ Harry thought.

Mrs. Weasley sighed again.

"The books can stay here for tonight," Mrs. Weasley said. "–_Only_ for tonight, so you can say _goodbye_ to them. They _will_ be gone in the morning, even if I have to turn the _entire house_ inside out to find them."

"You won't have to," Ginny said morosely.

"I'm truly sorry, dear," the girl's mother said, sounding like she genuinely meant it. "It's _always_ hard saying goodbye, but you'll see that it's for the best. It's time to say goodbye to Make Believe."

Harry heard Mrs. Weasley gave her daughter a kiss and go back upstairs, leaving her daughter alone. Harry quickly looked around, trying to come up with some way to make it seem like he _hadn't_ been listening the entire time so that he could make it up to his room without absolutely mortifying the poor girl.

_'Maybe if I opened and closed the door to make it seem like I had just come inside?'_ he thought.

_'And what would we say we'd been _doing_?'_ another part of Harry asked himself in turn. _'Looking up at the stars? That's not the kind of image we want that girl to have at the moment.'_

Just as he had decided to go with _'helping Mr. Weasley with the washing machine'_ as his excuse it was taken away from him when he heard the girl say, "It's just a _stupid_ book for a _stupid_ little girl," before seeing the offending object sail through the kitchen, land, bounce, and slide across the floor to the door.

Harry sighed and reached out to see for himself what all this commotion was about. What he saw was rather unnerving.

_'Oh_,' Harry thought gazing at the title._ 'So _this_ was what Bill was talking about.'_

"The Future Adventures of Harry Potter:" the title read. "The Boy-Who-Lived and the Chamber of Doom."

Harry stared dumbfounded at the book in his hands. He had put together that the books in question had been about him but _this_ made him sound like Indiana Jones. _'Might as well wear a fedora and carry a bull whip.'_ He shook his head to clear that image from his mind. _'Certainly not the image _anyone_ needs at the moment.'_

If anything, the cover art was _worse_. He looked much too old to be himself. In fact, he didn't look anything _like_ himself, apart from the black hair and lightning-bolt shaped scar on his forehead. For some reason they seemed to think he'd wander around dark chambers full of vicious clawed beasts with horns and a tail while his shirt was undone, cradling some red-headed girl in his arms, and lifting a sword triumphantly.

_'I could only hope to look this muscular when I get that old,_' Harry thought to himself._ 'Whoever this author, Ida Beeman, is they need to get their head examined.'_

Harry stood to go upstairs, the quick squeak from the couch telling him that he had forgotten about the girl in the next room. His eyes darted towards her just in time to see her dive to hide her face in the couch again. This time though she didn't stop, in a flash the couch had swallowed her up as if she had never been there.

"Er – Hello?" Harry asked. "Are you still there?"

He went to look behind the couch for the missing girl only to find that she was nowhere to be seen.

With a stifled grunt the couch shuddered.

"Hello?" he asked again, poking the couch.

The couch shuddered again and there was more sounds of a struggle.

"Are you alright?" Harry asked.

Finally the couch gave a diminutive sigh.

"Could you get my Mum?" the girl's muffled voice asked. "I think I'm stuck."

"How'd you get in there?" he asked as amusement warred with mild concern.

"I don't know. It's never happened before," the girl said quietly.

"Do you think the couch was just incredibly hungry?" Harry asked, hoping to lighten the mood.

"I don't know." The poor girl sounded like she wanted to cry.

_'Okay, that isn't helping,'_ Harry thought to himself.

"If I help you get out, are you going to faint again?" he asked.

"No," the girl said mournfully.

"Are you going to run off to your room?"

There was a pause.

"Maybe," Ginny answered.

_'Well, at least she's honest_,' Harry thought.

"Okay, hang on," he said as he tried to think of something to do. If he went and got her mother the girl would be mortified, and if her brothers found out there'd be no living it down. He couldn't even use magic to do it without the risk of everyone finding out about it afterwards.

Harry set the book down and checked the cushions to find that they came off quite easily. Directly beneath them was the youngest Weasley, lying in a small unnatural dent and pinned in place by one of the couch supports.

"I think we can get you out," Harry said after a moment. "Give me your hands, I'll pull you towards this end and we can see if you can wiggle your way out."

Either the girl was held at an odd angle which made things slow going or the couch was putting up more of a struggle for its meal than he had been expecting. It took some doing but after a couple of minutes the girl was free from the couch. As soon as her feet left the dent the couch popped back out into place with a groan of springs.

"Thanks," Ginny said.

"Don't mention it," he replied. Harry looked down at the books still on the coffee table and picked up a couple. "Do you mind if I borrow these?" he asked.

Ginny tensed for a moment. "No," she said. "You can have them."

"Thanks," Harry said as he turned to go.

"Just–" the girl started. "Can we not mention the couch to anyone?" she asked.

"As long as you don't tell the guys I have _these_," Harry smiled, hefting the peculiar books.

Ginny nodded.

Harry made his way back up to his room. This had definitely been the strangest day of his life.

.o0O0o.

The kindly old grandfather of the wizarding world wound his way down the quaint village street in the afternoon's failing light towards the warm glow and lively sounds of the village's most comforting inn. It had become a kind of tradition for him, these quiet little jaunts down from his proverbial ivory tower at Hogwarts, and Albus found that he quite enjoyed his monthly visits. They reminded him of what it was all for.

He crossed the threshold of the Three Broomsticks, quickly making way for some of the more spritely village youngsters dashing about on their way home before sunset after one last butterbeer. Albus chuckled to himself as he made his way to his usual booth. He did so love youths; all of the unrestrained energy and the promise of life's great adventures ahead of them filled him with hope. The rosy tavern keeper, Madam Rosmerta, made her way over just as he was settling into his seat.

"As regular as clockwork. How are you, Albus?" Rosmerta asked warmly as she hugged him to her overly large breasts.

"I'm fine, just fine," he said jovially, straightening his half-moon spectacles on his twice-broken nose and set his hat back in its proper place. Oh, how he loved these genuine displays of affection he got from his few regular acquaintances; they made him feel young.

"–Ready to begin a new year," he smiled as he continued. "Now all we need are students. I believe you have something for me?" Albus prompted. He always had his monthly statements mailed here for him to review surrounded by the bustle and life of the tavern. These people were the lifeblood of the wizarding world, and Hogwarts its heart, it only made sense to do what he did here in the warm glow of all that life while its heart had grown temporarily cold.

"Oh, not today, I don't," Rosmerta said, wiping an imaginary spot on the table. "I'm sorry," she said sympathetically. "It looks like your lady friend's forgotten you this time," she said with a twinkle in her eye. She had tried setting him up with some of the older witches and wizards of the village a number of times before in the last decade, but he had always been more inclined towards his work than in meeting any new friends, let alone anyone special.

"Alas," Albus said. "The closest thing I've had to a lady friend in that regard has been you, since you always leave me wanting more. Perhaps you'd be so kind as to find me something to nibble on while I'm here?

Rosmerta laughed and flicked her rag at him.

"Oh, you old flirt," she smiled. "It's a pity you've never found yourself someone special to settle down with," she said sadly.

"Ah," Albus said. "_Finding_ one and _doing so_ are two very different things."

"I'll go see what I can come up with," she said as she patted his hand comfortingly before walking away.

Albus did hope it was _food_ that she brought and not another older gentleman.

.o0O0o.

It was quite some time later that the lonely old man made his way back up the hard-packed dirt lane towards the grounds of Hogwarts. No mail had come for poor Albus, nobody wanted him, and nobody thought him important; it made him feel sad. Even the patrons in the bar, long accustomed to his monthly working visits, had paid him no mind and didn't even notice as he gazed longingly at them as if looking for some way to join their conversation.

He sighed despondently as he looked up at the castle through the wrought iron gates, only a tiny few pin-pricks of light in a multitude of windows. Albus wondered what would happen to it once he was gone.

_'There was still time_,' he thought to himself. _'There's still time_.'

A cold and mournful wind blew across the grounds as Albus walked to the castle. In other times, on other nights, that breeze might've seemed a brisk and cool breeze, but not tonight, not for Albus.

He looked over to the great misshapen lump of Hagrid's hut and a small smile crept onto his face as he thought that it looked very much like a slumbering giant, so much like the gentle giant that tottered about within. Albus reminded himself to try to be more like the kindly gamekeeper. A pure and simple soul was so much more in tune with the Greater Good than one whose mind and heart was fixed on the mournfully mundane.

The entryway was dark when he arrived at the school, only one door unlocked and none open. The Great Hall stood empty, silent, its tables devoid of golden plates and shining silverware, its enchanted ceiling showing only darkness. Only one torch in three was lit as Albus made his way to his office and he wondered how long they would last.

It was on this somber scene that he saw one of his few moderately good work friends appear.

"Ah, Professor McGonagall," Albus said with a smile he didn't feel. "I see you have returned, and a few days early. Just as eager as I to get another year underway?"

"Sadly, no," the Scottish woman rained on Albus's parade. "I just got the statements for the Operational Fund and they're _far_ less than the projections you gave me last year. I came in to see what could have caused it."

"Nothing amiss, I trust?" the kindly old man asked.

"Something's definitely amiss, alright," Minerva said tersely. "Hogwarts is in dire straits. The Fund is lower than it's been in over a _decade_ and I'm at a loss as to how to explain it. Did the Governors say anything about cutting our budget?"

"Not any more than they've said in previous years," Albus said. "I wouldn't worry, things will work themselves out."

"Things had better 'work themselves out' soon," she said, tugging fitfully at her tartan robes. "–Or we may have to end the Hopefuls program entirely and you'll have to hit the Beggar's Circuit again."

"I do so dislike that phrase," Albus tutted. "They are valued alumni, generously donating to their old school."

"Whatever they are, you'll need to see them with your hat in your hand asking for money if you want to keep the doors open for long."

"Oh," Albus said, once more regaining his jovial mood now that someone needed his reassurances. "I don't think things are quite as dark as all that. I didn't get my statements at all today. This may well be some sort of mistake or delay in processing. I wouldn't worry about it. There's still a week before the mailings go out, by then we may look back and think how alarmist we're being now. There's still plenty of time."

"I hope so, Albus," the Scottish woman said. "I _really_ do. I'd so hate to have to go back on our word. Those would be three very dispirited children to have to hear that they'll never be going to Hogwarts."

"Rest assured, Minerva," Albus said knowingly. "By the time I return from this month's I.C.W. meeting, I'm certain the problem will be solved. I wish I could stay to make sure things were fine _here_ but-."

"-There are too many opportunities to do good there," she finished for him. "You're a saint, Albus."

"Oh, no," he smiled. "But I do _try_."

.o0O0o.

Lichfield looked spitefully at the tiny car. His blasted neighbor always did this to him; it's what comes from living above reckless youths who thought of no one but themselves. He tapped the oddly shaped metal thing with his wand, causing it to roll back several feet. Finally able to get to the old wooden stoop that served as the entryway to his part of the building, Lichfield made his way inside.

Though most would classify being inside the building as being _'inside,'_ he was still no closer to his apartment. He flicked on the lights to reveal that the room was nothing more than a steep stairway. Lester felt like he had lived every year he had twice over again as he hauled his aching bones up that blasted staircase and through the door into the apartment proper.

A pattering of tiny feet came running from the kitchen as the warlock made to set his briefcase down.

"Mister Lichy is ever so late," the young house-elf said as she whisked the briefcase away.

Lichfield grunted. It had been a long day. First Gropegold, then Cadogan and the Knight Bus, then tracking down that foul Trunchbull woman, though he did get no end of enjoyment seeing the havoc those children had caused her, even adding a few choice bits himself.

Lester removed his outer robe.

"Mipsy didn't know what Mister Lichy would want to eat," Mipsy said as she whisked his outer robe away.

The robe took its place on its hook, within arm's length in front of him. He could just as well look after himself but as much as she pained him, he never could bring himself to send little Mipsy away. The girl deserved better than to wallow in a freedom she didn't want just as she deserved better than him. She deserved to be with a large family who could give her all the work she was worth instead of having to make due with him.

He groaned as he settled into the apartment's one small chair and started untying his shoes.

"Would Mister Lichy like the eggs?" Mipsy asked as she whisked away the right shoe.

"–Or maybe the soup?" she asked as she whisked away the left shoe.

"Perhaps just the meal of toast?" she asked as she walked away with the right sock held well away from her long nose.

"–Or maybe just the juice?" Mipsy pinched her nose as the left sock was carried away.

Lester sighed.

"Toast will do," he said.

"With the jelly?" she asked.

"With the jelly," he nodded.

He was a creature of simple habits. Simple habits made by long years of being alone, of having nothing worth living for, of having nothing to take enjoyment from. His meals were simple ones, eggs the way he liked them, a simple soup his mother used to make, or a bit of toast or some juice if he were in a hurry or not particularly hungry. It was so much less than the little elf deserved so he tried to make it up to her by making the portions small and having her cook each serving separately. It gave her more to do to occupy her time and give her the need she needed. He did the same with his clothes.

Not for the first time he considered _actually_ freeing her, letting her go off to find someone capable of giving her all the work she was worth, but freeing an elf would more likely end up with the little one dead from wallowing in misery than anything else. So few survived being away from those they felt truly needed them, it was only by being attached to families, where they could be passed from one generation to another, that they gained the most protection from that, though even Charlus and Dorea's elves didn't survive them long. It was simply too much grief to bear.

If what the boy had said was _true_ though, if that Dobby _had_ come to him, if he had served him the way the boy _claims_ he had, if he _truly_ held no love for those who owned him _now_, then there was a very good chance that little guy will live. Lester shook his head, he had to stop thinking about them like they were human; that was half the problem he had with Mipsy.

Mipsy quickly reappeared with a bit of toast and jelly on a small plate.

"Mister Lichy need anything else? Draw the bath? Brush the hair? Brush the _teeth_? Warm the bed?" Mipsy asked in the rapid-fire way she had when she was desperately looking for something else to do.

"Just warming the bed will be fine," Lester said, eating his tiny meal in a few quick bites. His small attic apartment was always drafty, his bedroom always cold. "You can individually wash and fold my socks, if you like, when you're done."

"Washed them twice today already, Mister Lichy, sir," Mipsy said happily.

"Well, third time's the charm, you know."

Mipsy smiled and nodded happily. Her dark hair and eyes making her seem all the more like the small daughter he'd never have. He waved her away to get started on what passed for work in this house as he settled into an even deeper gloom. Lester hated when his thoughts became tangled in the past. The past was nothing but a continuous stream of heartbreak and despair that there was no escape from.

Unbidden, his eyes sought out the things that haunted him most. A large class picture from his Hogwarts days, made for all the Seventh Years as they used to do back then. So many friends, so confident, so daring, so eager to shake the world to its foundations and bold enough to hold back the sands of Time itself to accomplish their aims. So many friends dead, their confidence shattered, their eager daring and boldness broken as the world crumbled around them and Time itself wasted them away too soon.

Charlus was there with his arm around him, inseparable as they were, and Dorea stood stately at her would-be husband's side, her cool demeanor and haughty vanity on full display. The vanity that would doom her and Charlus both because the poor fool had loved her so. To trade away half your life, just to spend a few more years with the woman you loved when you had a young son who needed you, Lester would have thought him mad if he hadn't already lost someone himself. She wasn't pictured though, she had been so distressed that she'd miss the photo, having been confined to the hospital wing with a bout of dragon pox.

Lester set the picture face-down so he wouldn't have to see the smiling array of future corpses any longer and his eyes were drawn to the picture that reminded him of the most joy he had ever felt. They were so young when it was taken, and yet it so near the end, though they had no way of knowing. Smiling and happy and sitting in the large bay window of their very own home, a gift built by Charlus when Lester had married his sweetheart. He wanted them close, he had said, so he had built it on his land. He wanted them happy, so he had built them what they wanted, and in this picture they were. So young, so in love, and so soon to be parents - until it had all gone so horribly wrong.

It was with trembling hands that this picture joined the first, and with trembling hands he grasped the fiendish bit of twisted brass and glass that had stripped everything away from him. Bits of sand threatened to escape through his fingers as the sharp edges of the thrice-damned device bore into his palms. With a silent rage for all the years that should have been lived by so many, the man they call Lichfield flung that diabolical device as hard as he could, not caring where it landed. It would make its way back to its proper place, just as the pictures would right themselves. There was only so much work for the little elf to do.

He stalked into the tiny bathroom to splash himself with water and try to calm himself down. Rage and distress caused problems when your body was as withered as his was, and he couldn't die just yet. Lichfield sighed as he toweled himself dry. He knew what had gotten him into this funk. It wasn't the boy, it wasn't all the references to Charlus, it was the Trace.

They had stood in line together, he and the girl, the day the Ministry man came to Hogwarts to give them a 'standard health screening.' A health screening so good at its job that they had never done it before or since. It was only later, once _he_ had joined the Ministry, that he had learned what that really was. What a day that turned out to be. Asked out the girl he fancied, she had said yes, and then they spent the rest of the day grinning like idiots while waiting in line so they could be tagged and tracked by the government.

To this day, nearly forty years later, he still sometimes saw her in his dreams the way she was then; her shy smile, her dark hair and dark eyes were always mesmerizing. If he couldn't even look at Mipsy without seeing the ghost of the child they never had staring back at him he knew that tonight would be one of those nights. She had nothing to do with the Potters, even less with their boy's young boy, yet he had raised her up out of her grave as surely as he was one of the Three Brothers himself. And all he did was mention the Trace.

_'And the land_,' Lichfield thought. _'Returning the people Gropegold had run off the land_.' A noble idea, and one Charlus would've supported, but what was left on the land for him? An old house that was home to more memories and more ghosts than the boy could ever conjure with the Stone itself and a pair of old graves - one filled, one still waiting.

_'That's the only reason I have to return to the land_,' Lichfield thought. He'd have to tell Barchoke about it, for when the time came. He only hoped there was time enough left in him. He was so much older than his sixty two years. He looked and felt almost twice that. There had to be time. Time for one last service for the Potters, for Charlus. She would have to wait a little while longer. The boy had to reach thirteen.

_'Eyes ahead_,' Lester reminded himself, _'not behind_.' He was no longer a kid, and 'as dumb as a door' no longer, or so he hoped. He had the thing to do, and he was going to do it, and he was going to do it right.

The boy. The house. The secrecy, and the Secrecy. What was it that Barchoke had said? The depth of secrecy he hadn't seen since You-Know-Who. With the old man planning things out, with him being as intelligent as he was supposed to be, he'd want to have someone stationed near that house, just to keep an eye on things. A witch or wizard's out because the old man wouldn't want their magic to alert the Ministry. But how to do it without breaking Secrecy though?

Lester knew what he would do if it were him. He'd get a squib. Most children of magical families left the magical world behind once they know there's nothing there for them. They could never inherit and most were disowned when it became obvious. Most feel like they never truly belong, being unable to do magic themselves. Some squibs though, some cling to the periphery of the magical world, coming up with some way to still remain a part of the world that has no place for them. Owl keepers, farmers, animal breeders, there are loads of jobs that wizards would never even _think_ to do that squibs would suddenly find useful to make money from.

_'He might be using one of those_,' Lester thought._ 'If nothing came up in the dealings of the Potter account I'll have to make sure and check the records for any businesses registered in this Little Whinging for anything near this Privet Drive_.' Once Dumbledore showed himself at Gringotts, he'd be free to go after his eyes and ears, he'll squeeze them until they popped, _then_ he'd have everything he needed to drag the old man's name into the mud where it belonged.

Dumbledore might've been a great man once, and one of his favorite teachers, but he had one last service to do. For Charlus.

.o0O0o.

Barchoke stopped what he was doing as his mind went back to review this monumental day. That snow white owl had turned his reasonably comfortable world on its head and set him on a collision course with some of the most powerful people in the country; but he wasn't afraid. He had Lichfield, and he had the boy, and he had the chance for the revenge he had shaven his head to swear to more than a decade ago when his enemy had been nothing more than some theoretical someone.

Now he had a name for the one who wronged him: Dumbledore.

He looked over at his father and he knew what had happened all those years ago. It wasn't the loss of the Potter family and all the work he'd spent his life dedicated to that had warped Hammerhand's mind, it was magic. Long ago Lichfield had suggested that a simple _Confundus_ charm could've done this much damage, if performed by someone who didn't know any better.

A goblin's mind was built for gain, _obsessed_ with it, it couldn't be made to confuse _loss_ with _gain_ of any kind. It simply couldn't be done. The goblin mind would rebel. When it happened during an _attack_ though, the goblin mind would remember. A goblin _always_ remembers those who've wronged them, those who've _taken_ from them, those who've made them lose. They remembered, and they couldn't stop remembering.

His eyes swept the room his father had been confined to. Snakes, very crafty and deadly creatures to those who live underground. Snakes with long white beards could prove all the more so, but Barchoke would be ready. He might not be a warrior of old but he had other weapons with which to seek his revenge if Lester's theory proved true.

Neither of them had the funds to afford the type of mental healing Hammerhand required, and the isolated goblins of Britain had no skill in it. When it was simple grief, Gringotts Bank had written him off as a bad investment and refused to pay for it. If it had been an _attack_ though. An attack meant a victim, and a victim means _damages_. Damages meant money to be gained, money that included every knut spent housing Hammerhand for eleven long years, every knut spent making him well again too. If it were an _attack_, then _victim_ could become _witness_.

Hammerhand's heavy hand landed on his desk with a _bang_.

"You have to _help me_, Barchoke," the old goblin said tersely. "Stop _dawdling_ or we'll never get this audit done for Charlus. He doesn't have much time left, you know."

"Not to worry, sir," Barchoke said. "We'll work through the night if we have to. We'll get it done."

Hammerhand nodded and went back to his drawing as Barchoke returned to his. It wasn't an old stag, mournfully drawn, like the one he had drawn yesterday had been, this one was a young stag full of pride. This would be his weapon of choice. His father might be partial to his portraits of snakes with beards, but to Barchoke, it always came back to stags.

.o0O0o.

**AN:** Well, that was about twice as long as any of the other chapters and I bet you never thought you'd see Ginny and Molly like that did you, let alone _Albus_? It was that odd change in attitude that Lichfield had last chapter that let me know what this story was. It's a drama. I'll always keep the focus small and on the characters themselves, since that's where drama comes from, but don't expect anything simple or anything to be quite what it seems.

Thanks for reading.


	8. The Chocolate Bar Rebellion

**AN:** Thanks to Imraphel for Brit–picking the chocolate choices and I swear I make no money from product placement and lament the fact that I haven't been able to taste test them myself to give a more realistic description. Just so everyone knows, no this isn't a crack fic; it just has humor in it. Now on to what you're all interested in: a chapter all about the character I've been teasing since Chapter 2.

.o0O0o.

Hermione closed her eyes and savored the rich flavor as the dark chocolate of her Bournville bar melted in her mouth. She sectioned off each square for private consumption. Each silky square was a victory against her mother's decade long anti–sugar regime. Hermione's was a guerrilla campaign. The fact that this little victory was gained while the feathered version of her mother sat staring down at her from the tree across the way made it taste all the more delicious.

Imogen cried her call at her, as if the owl saw her blatant rule–breaking and disapproved. Hermione opened her eyes as if surprised to hear anything at all and cupped a hand around her ear as if straining to hear the bird. Imogen cried again.

_'__What was that?'_ the bushy–haired brunette seemed to say as she did the motion again. _'I can't quite hear_.'

The owl flew away, back to its usual spot on the other side of the house.

"Another victory," Hermione said as she snapped off another dark square and popped it in her mouth after swallowing the first. She smiled and went back to studying the old textbook in front of her.

Momentum might be on her side _today_ but things had not always gone so smoothly. In fact, it almost didn't happen at all. It was on their way home from King's Cross Station that the fires of war had been lit. On their way north and east, her father stopped to refuel at a gas station near Newmarket. Minnie the mini mint Mini Mark III was a hungry machine, one that was older than she was, and her father loved coincidences. His dental practice was on Newmarket Road, so of course they _had to stop _when the turnoff said Newmarket. The fact they were closer to Exning than Newmarket fell on deaf ears, as did the fact that the two Newmarkets were on the same road, only 50 miles apart and therefore likely _not_ a coincidence at all.

She had followed her father inside, more to be away from her mother – who stayed in the car – than to stretch her legs. Maybe it was the fact that there was an _entire other world_ out there that seemed to run counter to the way her mother operated, or perhaps it was simply the fact that she had _friends_ there, but ever since Hermione had stepped off the Hogwarts Express everything about the woman had been grating on her.

Cold, emotionless, and overly–logical, _that_ was Dr. Puckle. She might be one of the best oral and maxillofacial surgeons in the country but her interpersonal skills left much to be desired. Her father had once said that her mother simply wasn't programmed for human interaction, a manufacturer's mistake and that if only he could find her manual…

Her mother had never _wanted_ kids, she knew that. She had heard her _say _it when she was little. But it wasn't as if Hermione hadn't _tried_, for _years_ she had pushed herself: constantly studying, constantly revising, constantly drilling, trying to be the very image of her mother, _desperately_ seeking some sign that she approved. There was _always_ some criticism though: she had been too slow with her calculation, had delayed unnecessarily by asking for the word's etymology when it was obvious, she could have finished the game two moves faster had she _really_ wanted to win.

"Curly Wurly?" her father asked, dragging her from her thoughts. Safely hidden from the car's view in the convenience store's candy aisle the man was finally free to indulge his sweet tooth. "It's chocolate–coated caramel goodness. You used to love them," he finished in a sing–song voice as he wagged the candy bar back and forth.

If four–out–of–five dentists recommended something, Dan Granger would say the exact opposite; then laughingly jest that he'd have all the more teeth to clean when his patients made their next appointments. This _strange_ outlook on life, coupled with a pair of overly expressive eyes and a head of hair that could only be called a small coiffed bush, led her to believe he was much more of a child's cartoon than a dentist. How he ended up married to her mother she'd never know but suspected there was some sort of contract negotiation or robotic testing involved.

"You're silly, Dad," she said as she took the candy bar away from him as if _she_ were the parent and _he_ were the child. After all, she had been _five_ the last time she had eaten a Curly Wurly. He shrugged and went to the cashier to pay for his chips, drink, and the candy bar that the lanky man would pocket before ever getting in sight of the car.

She had fully intended to put the candy bar _back_ on the shelf when it happened, a quick clear _Beep!_ from Minnie's horn. Her mother had summoned; they had taken too long. She grabbed something from the shelf and walked decisively up to the cashier next to her father.

"Is that all for you?" the cashier asked, ringing up the purchases.

"These too," Hermione said, adding _two_ Curly Wurlies to the small pile.

The cashier looked to her father before continuing.

"That'll do us," her father said with a smile and handed over the money to pay the bill. "That's my _Granger_–girl," he said with a supportive arm around her as he pocketed his candy. "Don't tell your mother."

On its way from her shoulder her father's hand strayed towards her chocolate. She playfully smacked it. "Hands off my Curly Wurly!" she said, reciting the candy's old slogan.

With that little act of defiance near Newmarket, the Chocolate Bar Rebellion had begun.

It was almost an hour later, behind the closed door of her room, that Hermione had finally eaten the serpentine chocolate lattice. Slightly melted from being held in her pocket the rest of the way home, it nonetheless tasted _illicitly_ good. The multicolored wrapper she saved for later use and that night she snuck out to the kitchen and stuck it to the fridge door with a magnet like some modern day Martin Luther.

The next wrapper appeared on the kitchen counter the next afternoon. The purple packaging of a Dairy Milk bar appeared inside the fridge _itself_ after that – propped up against her mother's skim milk like it belonged there. She had tried to appear engrossed in her pleas to McGonagall and Flitwick while her mother looked at her calculatingly.

Her father had thought that one was clever, later saying that she was a lot braver than he was. He had no problem at all though in handing over a few pounds every once in a while so that she could continue her campaign, as long as he was provided with a large share of the chocolate. Apparently a bit of chocolate once in a while was fine but he didn't want her to think he was okay with her banging her teeth out with a hammer as soon as she got home from school. Hermione didn't mind, she wasn't doing it for chocolate, she was doing it to send a message. She was _never_ going to be her mother.

As the days passed something else had started to wear on her, other than her mother's decided lack of response. She had heard _nothing_ from Ron. Hermione knew that she shouldn't have asked him to find out what Harry had thought of her, especially after what Ron had said earlier, but had cowardly thought she had no other option but to get him to ask. _Of course_ she had another option; she could have just talked to Harry and handled the whole thing herself. She just hadn't thought she could deal with that kind of rejection and the risk of losing her best friend was too great for anything less than the absolute surety of a positive response.

Her father finally pulled her aside after Ron's letter came telling her that nothing but silence was coming from _his_ letter to Harry and she had looked like she really needed to talk. Once she assured him that the feather duster that was Ron's owl was still alive and that _that_ wasn't her problem, she started to tell her story. She didn't name names, and only said things in the most _roundabout_ way – her father didn't need to know just _how_ dangerous the wizarding world could be – but it didn't take a _genius_ to figure out what the whole issue was about. It was about a boy; a boy she liked, a boy she liked who was also her _friend_.

Unlike her mother, her father was always one to listen. And unlike her mother, who could only criticize and tear down, her father like to _explore_. There were no tutting that she was too young for this kind of thing or that she should be concentrating on her schoolwork. Instead, he asked _equally_ roundabout questions about the boy in question. Nothing about what this boy's _name_ was or what their _parents_ were like, instead he asked about the boy himself. What was _he_ like? _What_ did he like? What was his _background_ like? What did they have in _common?_ And just as importantly, what did they have that were at odds? She had to admit that even after knowing him for _months_ that she didn't really _know him_ that well. She hinted that he was _well known_, even if he wasn't precisely what you'd call _popular_.

"Well then, I'd say that you're in a very unique position here," her father said encouragingly.

"To have my first real friendships _destroyed_ and have to go through the rest of my life like a Puckle?" she asked, referencing her mother.

"I _highly doubt_ that's going to happen," he said bracingly. "You're in a unique position because you're thinking about this _now_ rather than a few years from now, _and_ because everyone else in your year is probably _oblivious_ to this sort of thing. Meanwhile _you_, my little Puckle, have your foot in the door."

"I am _not_ a little Puckle," Hermione said stubbornly. "And what do you mean 'my foot in the door'? I feel more like I have my foot in my _mouth_ and am just waiting for the opportunity to chew. I can't _believe_ I admitted all that to Ron. If Ha–_he_ hadn't been in the hospital wing at the time I never would have," she said, hoping to play it off like Harry had had some sort of Quidditch injury.

"You have your foot in the door by already being _friends_ with this boy," her father explained. "They always say that the best couples always start off as friends. But you haven't been friends with him so long that your – how do I put this – _group dynamic,_ has had a chance to set like dried cement. There's still a great deal of _wiggle room_ for things to change between now and – whenever it is I finally let you date – in, like, _ten years_ or so."

Hermione rolled her eyes but saw what he was getting at.

"If all this had only come up four or five _years_ from now–," he said, looking like the option would've suited him better than having to talk about this _now_. "–Then you might be in a position where trying to pursue anything _really would_ put your established friendship in jeopardy, or worse."

"How could it be worse than losing H– my friend?" Hermione quickly corrected herself.

"He could end up valuing the friendship you've built up over the years too much to put it at risk by changing it, or _worse_ start thinking of you as some sort of _sister,_" he said derisively. "If either one of _those_ happen then you're stuck. If you stop being his friend _then_ you look shallow, and if you stick around you'll have to watch as he starts going out with every other girl _but_ you."

"So you're saying that I should just ask him out," Hermione said for him.

"No," her father said dramatically holding up his hands to ward off the very idea. "No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. And once again, _no_. You'll _never_ hear a father say that his twelve year old daughter should be dating," he said aghast at the very idea, his eyes a little bugged out.

"I'm just saying that you could – _get to know_ the boy a bit better. On a, er – a bit of a – um, a _more personal level?"_ her father tried to uncomfortably clarify as he hunted around for the right words to say.

"I'm not saying _date_," he stated as he continued. "You won't ever hear me say _date_. Just–," he gestured with his hands as if their flapping could somehow make all other forms of communication unnecessary. "–Just talk like _this_. Just share with _him_ all of this more personal stuff that you don't share with anyone else, and get _him_ to do the same. And maybe, if you both see something there worth _building on_… then in _ten years_ you could maybe possibly someday think about considering the option of going on one of those _'D'_–word–things at some point down the line," he finished rather green around the gills.

Hermione could see the logic in what he said, though the 'ten years' comment was patently ridiculous. _'Third Years_ are _allowed visits to Hogsmeade_,' Hermione reminded herself. _'And Hogwarts, a History_ does say_ that it's become a traditional destination for many first dates_.' With a rudimentary plan in mind, she decided that what her father doesn't know won't hurt him, or cause him to look sick and wave his arms about hopelessly.

"And how _exactly_ am I supposed to get him to talk?" she asked. "He's always come across as a much more _private_ person, unless it's about Quidditch and then it's not about him _at all_."

"Well, you could always talk to him about _that_," her father said with a grin.

Hermione didn't look convinced.

"Hey, if a girl comes off as a sports fan she's liable to get snapped up pretty quick. I've seen it happen."

_"__Everyone_ there is a sports fan," Hermione explained. "They really don't have anything else to _do_ except for a few silly games and _'pulling pranks'_."

Her father didn't say anything for a while after that. It was his way of drawing out whatever else might be hiding under the surface. It _used _to work all the time when she was little but if he thought she'd say something just to fill the empty silence then he was sadly mistaken.

"It _is_ exciting to watch him play," she admitted finally.

Her father smiled and poked her side. She tried not to blush, knowing that it was painfully obvious to both of them that the last word she said was only tacked on for decorum.

"If he's honestly looking for a Quidditch witch–," Hermione said, trying to regain her equilibrium, "–they're not hard to find. Half the _team_ is female."

"And what do you think about _that?"_ he asked with another poke.

"I know he'll have other interests besides _me_," Hermione said with a look. "I don't expect him to hang out in the _Library_ all the time; he's not that much of a studier. And I know he wouldn't expect _me_ to go to every Quidditch practice and _swoon_ if he let me wear his old _jersey_," she said derisively. If someone swooned around Harry he'd be more likely to think they were sick.

"You know, you're not supposed to be _this_ mature at twelve," her father said.

"And _you're_ supposed to be more mature than _you_ are at _forty_," Hermione countered.

"It's forty–one," he said levelly. "But I'm a guy," he said with a grin. "We're _never_ more mature than we have to be. You'll want to remember that."

Hermione sighed and shook her head. She sincerely hoped that being more _Granger _didn't lead to her being such a daft dimbo like her father.

"Well then, little miss _maturity_," her father said as he got up and walked to her desk. "You should have _no_ problem doing what comes next."

She watched in horror as he pulled out a clean piece of parchment and readied her quill and ink. _'Uh oh_,' Hermione thought as she briefly considered fleeing to the safety of the local library. She had to discard the idea when she found that her feet wouldn't move. This was the problem with having her father be the person she always talked to; he always made her made her deal with the _real_ issue involved and _then_ made her follow through with things when the solution was obvious.

She walked over with leaden feet like a convict to the electric chair.

He patted her on the head as she took her seat and left her with one last bit of advice.

"Embrace your inner Granger," her father said sagely. "Write to him and tell him all the stuff you _haven't_ been telling _me;_ and _without_ planning everything out like a Puckle. I think you'll be surprised at the response."

_'__Gryffindors are supposed to be_ brave,' Hermione reminded herself. Why couldn't she have just let the Sorting Hat put her in Ravenclaw instead? _'Because you're _intelligent_, not flighty,_' she reminded herself as she recalled her run–in with some giggly older Ravenclaw girls while looking for Neville's toad on the train.

"Oh, and in case you forgot," her father said with only his head still poking around the door. "The boy you like is named _Harry_. For some reason it just keeps getting stuck on your tongue," he said with an odd look on his face. "You might want to practice saying it out loud. Toodle–oo," he left with a smile and bright popping eyes.

She'd been caught, though given the fact that she had written home naming only _two people_ as friends the deduction wasn't a hard one to make. She had tried _so hard_ during this _not_ to say his name only to blow it by saying Ron's. The last time she'd started to say the other out loud – well, in this context anyway – she'd jinxed the whole thing and it had been the most painfully awkward moment of her life! How were you supposed to say, _"Sorry, Ron. Thanks for saying you like me too, but it wasn't _you_ I was talking about,_" and have that _not_ be awkward for everyone?

Hermione took the quill and started to write. She briefly panicked and thought about starting over when _'Dear Harry'_ appeared at the top; she hadn't meant to let that slip out so soon. She calmed herself by thinking that he probably wouldn't think twice about it; it _was_ the traditional way to start a letter after all.

As she caught him up on her summer so far, keeping the Chocolate Bar Rebellion a secret lest her mother have a chance to read it before she sent it off, Hermione found herself relaxing. She had even managed to make a joke. It helped by thinking of him simply as _'my friend Harry'_ rather than _'Harry, that cute boy I like_.' Soon enough she found herself writing about things in the same way she's always been able to talk about things with her father, with no real barrier between them.

She had caught it when father had pointed out that _that_ part had changed. It was like he knew that there were simply things about the wizarding world she'd never be able to share with an old muggle dentist like him. It made her wonder if _this _was why he wanted her to do this. Even if things with Harry never went anywhere _romantic _and they only became really close friends, at least she'd have someone who'd be there for her in the way he always had been. For some reason that made the uncaring qualities of her mother loom even larger in her mind.

She pushed those thoughts away and concentrated on writing about the subject at hand: Harry, and what he meant to her. As she wrote it soon became blurred as what this letter really was. Was it really a letter to Harry, letting him know what she thought about him, or was it a letter from that hidden Granger part of her letting _her_ know what _she_ thought of Harry? She knew she _liked _him, she knew she _admired_ him, but the way the words began appearing on the paper, almost without thought... She had never truly thought about how _central_ Harry had become to her. It was almost _scary _when she thought about it. _No wonder _she didn't tell him herself, she'd probably come across as some star–struck fan girl.

_'__No_,' she thought, _'Harry would never think of me like that. We're friends_.'

Finally she got to the end and looked at what she wrote.

_'__Curse that inner Granger,_' she thought. It had admitted the one thing she hadn't even been willing to admit to herself: even if things between them never went the way she wanted, there was no way around it, she would always be his. Whether that is as best friends, significant others, or – she blushed – anything more, was entirely up to him now.

Hermione plucked up what Gryffindor courage she still had left and tied the letter to Errol's feet with trembling hands before she could change her mind. There was no way she was going to trust Imogen with this. As the owl flew away it felt like it was carrying off some piece of herself. She drew a calming breath and tried to relax. Everything was going to be alright. It was. It _was_. The troops momentarily heartened, she started planning what targets her Bon Bon Brigade would hit next.

.o0O0o.

The campaign was in chaos, the troops in shambles, and their commander was grievously wounded and had fled the field in full retreat. The enemy didn't even have to fire a shot; hers was a self–inflicted wound. Hermione lay in bed, curled around her faithful copy of _Hogwarts, a History_ and wishing she were there now. Any normal day, even one with the threat of You–Know–Who barreling into the common room and murdering the lot of them, would be infinitely better than being where she was now.

How could she have been so _stupid_ as to send that letter? Write it, read it, decide it was too personal to _actually _send, **burn it, **and then write a _second _letter that was less _'Oh–my–God,–Harry,–you've–got–to–marry–me–now–or–I'll–__**die**_.' Was that so hard? Was that too much to ask?

And what did she get from following her father's advice? _Silence_, more than two whole weeks of silence. It wasn't hard to figure out what had happened. Harry had read the letter and had rightfully freaked. Ron _still _denied hearing anything from Harry but if he _had_ heard something he wasn't likely to tell her anyway. _She _was just the clingy want–to–be _fan girl_ for "Harry Potter" after all, not the _legitimate _friend who only wanted–

She sighed. She didn't know _what_ she wanted any more. If she was honest with herself, as she'd been raised to be, Hermione knew that she _did_ know. She wanted the whole thing reversed like it had never happened so that everything would go back to the way they were before she had royally messed them up. How was she going to face them again? It was impossible that Ron didn't know everything that had been in that letter by now. _He_ was Harry's best friend, _he_ could be trusted to keep his mouth shut, and_ he_ probably had Harry over at his place _right now _talking about how mad _she _was to even think that Harry might like her back!

Hermione placed her pillow over her face and briefly considered smothering herself as the slightly scuffing sounds her father had been making all day in the attic made its way down to her. She finally had to concede that this was getting her less than nowhere. It was _exactly_ like her candy campaign. Aside from that first calculating look her mother had never reacted, and Harry never responded. The two things were completely separate issues, yet in her mind the success of the Chocolate Bar Rebellion had melted into the issue with Harry.

How could she hope to concentrate on showing how _un_Puckle she was when the _huge _issue of Harry was still unresolved? Send _another _letter begging her case again? That'd just make things _worse._ She had to face facts. Harry was a lost cause, just like the Chocolate Bar Rebellion. Her mother didn't care, and neither did Harry. Nobody cares about a Puckle.

If Hermione hadn't been sulking she never would have heard it, this quiet brushing sound, like paper slipping off a desk or – or something sliding under the door! She lifted the pillow and craned her head to see what it was. Reinforcements had arrived, reinforcements in the guise of the garish pink packaging of a Fry's Turkish Delight. On top was a note.

_'__He doesn't define you. Viva la revolución!'_

She tore open the door and hugged her father for all she was worth, and at that moment she felt worth quite a lot. She didn't even notice how much she had needed this until she felt a tear slide down her cheek. Hermione scrubbed her eyes dry. If neither one of them wanted her then they weren't worth crying over.

"Well," her father said once she let him breathe again. "That saves me from having to slide _this_ under there too."

He held out a thick envelope with her name on it. She recognized the handwriting.

"It's from Professor McGonagall," she said, astounded. It had been _ages _since she had sent off asking for something to occupy her time and prepare for next year. She hadn't expected a response after so long.

"The owl must've thought that 'window closed, curtains shut' meant no personal deliveries and that _I_ would do in a pinch," her father said. _"This_ one, though, is the _really _weird one, because it didn't get here by any _owl_."

He handed her a book. But it wasn't just any book; it was an old, beat–up copy of _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2!_

"But – Then how did–?" she stammered.

_"__Magic,_ I would guess. Isn't that the way your world works? Either way, your guess is as good as mine," her father shrugged. "I came down from checking the insulation, saw the owl, and when I turned around _there_ was the book sitting on the counter. I guess someone wants you to have it."

"But I'm not allowed to do magic outside of school, even to practice," she told him.

"That doesn't mean you can't study up and practice everything _except_ putting it all together in one final _abracadabra,_" the man said with a smile.

She hugged him again.

"And what's that one for?" he asked.

"For everything."

She knew then what she had to do. It was her only way out. She had to write to Harry and tell him there were no hard feelings and that all she wanted was to be his friend. It'd hurt, but it's just the way things had to be.

.o0O0o.

Two weeks, _why_ did this have to come up _every_ _two weeks?_

_'__Because you're able to distract yourself for the first week,_' the voice in her head that sounded like her father told her. _'After that you start getting worried because you should have heard _something_ by then. At two weeks you think there's _no way_ that a response would've taken so long so something _must've_ happened_.'

Hermione snapped the book shut. She knew studying wasn't going to be able to get her out of this one just as she knew better than to argue with her father when it came to thoughts and feelings. They had talked too often when she was younger for the echo of him still stuck in her head not to be the same way, at least when it came to her. She often thought he'd missed his calling when he'd gone into dentistry and not counselling or psychology, or even history or one the other humanities. The man just absorbed it all like a sponge.

But _what_ could've happened to prevent anyone from hearing from Harry though?

_'__You said he wasn't much of a studier, maybe he's even less of a writer_.'

Hermione shook her head. Her father might know _her_ but he didn't know Harry like she did. Harry would never abandon his friends; brood, perhaps, but never just disappear. If her letter to him hadn't been enough to make him respond, and that _second_ letter hadn't been enough, then _surely_ Ron's repeated call for him to visit for his own birthday should've had him chomping at the bit to get away from his relatives and there's no way Ron scoring that kind of coup wouldn't have resulted in a cheer that would've been clearly audible all the way from – wherever it was he lived.

_'__Maybe there's something to that _relative _issue_,' the mental echo of her father said.

Hermione suddenly got a deepening sense of dread. Harry _had_ said that he disliked his relatives, he called them horrible. But _everyone_ exaggerates when it comes to their parents. She didn't _really_ think that her mother was a robot, no matter _how_ apt the comparison. But what if the Dursleys really _were_ horrible? What if they weren't just horrible but _abusive?_ Harry could be lying with bruises from head to toe, starving, and alone and _she didn't even have his telephone number to check!_

_'__Calm down, Hermione, you're panicking._'

She didn't know if that had come from that echo of her father or from some self–protective Puckle part of herself. Either way she was glad it was there. There _had_ to be something she could do to find out, or to help if she could. Telling her parents would do no good; they couldn't call every Dursley in Surrey asking if they had a Potter living with them. Did the wizarding world have something like the Child Protection System? For a society backwards enough to still use _quills_ in the twentieth century, let alone allow a giant Cerberus to be kept in a _school_, Hermione had severe doubts that it had any concept of child welfare at all.

There _had_ to be something she could do, someone else she could write to. Think, Hermione, _think!_ Professor McGonagall? She was sure to take this seriously. Then again, she was so busy chasing down all the _new_ students that even if she knew where Harry lived it might be _another_ two weeks before she was able to catch up with her mail and know to check on him.

Professor Dumbledore? He was no good; he didn't even interact with the students _at all_ except to take his meals with them. He might be the head of the school _and_ preside over the legislature _and_ oversee a body of international wizards but _that_ only meant it'd take him even _longer_ when it came to answering his mail.

A smile bloomed on her face as the solution presented itself; a solution with glinting beetle–like eyes and a big bushy beard. Hagrid! He'd be perfect. He'd pull down the _moon_ if it was for Harry, and he already knew where he lived! Harry had said that _Hagrid_ was the one to deliver his Hogwarts letter in the first place. McGonagall must've been _very_ busy last year for him to have been drafted, but whatever the reason was Hermione was glad for it if it helped out now.

Plan in place, she started to write.

.o0O0o.

Today was going to be a good day. Not only had she gotten Harry's _'Hello world, I'm still alive'_ message just the day before but this morning may have seen the tipping point for the Chocolate Bar Rebellion. Her chocolate and chocolate chip muffins had dealt a real blow to the enemy. Much to the later lament of her father, her mother hadn't simply thrown them away; she threw them away _roughly_ and _smashed_ them beneath other garbage.

Her mother might be more machine now than man, twisted and evil, but that little tantrum showed that there was still a bit of human left in her. It seemed that after more than a month of surprise attacks her mother's patience was wearing thin and the human inside that exoskeleton was no longer amused, not when her daily bran muffin had been shanghaied and replaced. Hermione smiled as she relived the memory. At this rate, maybe by the end of the summer she might actually get her mother to _swear_. She had to fight the urge to laugh lest she get her Bournville all over her book.

She began to turn the page and start the next chapter when there was movement and a soft _thump_ at her window. An owl had landed; a _snow white _owl. So much for Harry not being much of a writer. Hermione took a calming breath before opening the window.

"Hello, Hedwig, you have a nice flight?" she asked as she nervously untied the letter.

Hedwig gave her an affectionate nip.

_'__At least there's _one_ female in my life that's not a stranger to a little affection,_' she thought. Hermione smiled, it was a strangely calming sensation, and one she welcomed for she needed calming at the moment.

As the moment lingered and the letter was still in her hands, Hedwig looked at her as if to ask why she hadn't opened it. It was what you _did_ with letters after all. Hermione took another calming breath. It was just a letter, she had _told him_ to bin the other ones after all, so what was she so worried about? _This_ one probably was only sent to tell her that he was looking forward to leaving for Ron's house in a few days and would contact her again if the Wednesday after the Hogwarts book list came out would work for them. There was absolutely nothing to worry about.

_'__Hey Hermione'_ the letter started, and she let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding. Hey was good, hey was friendly, hey was comfortable – so why did she feel a bit sad? Did she _want_ him to _completely_ disregard everything she had said in the last letter only to have to face that friendship-crushing awkwardness again?

_'__Today has to be the strangest day of my life. I really wish you could've been there_,' Harry continued. Hermione couldn't imagine how anything could be stranger than giant three-headed dogs, strangulating plants, keys that attacked, and a possessed man with two faces but she couldn't deny that it felt nice to be missed.

_'__I guess the big news is that I'm away from the Dursleys and I'm never going back!'_

There was a split-second of reflected joy before what it meant caught up to her. Harry had _run away?_

_'__Don't worry; I'm safe and sound at the Burrow. That's Ron's place, by the way_.'

She took a calming breath.

_'__They had a bit of a party for us tonight and his older brother, Bill, gave me his old room since he moved to Egypt ages ago_.'

Hermione thought that was certainly nice of them, but what was Harry going to do, stay with _Ron_ for the rest of his life and become a Weasley? She shook away the sudden image of a Harry with ginger hair and freckles.

_'__I'd really like to tell you _why_ I won't be going back and all the big stuff I found out today, but I learned firsthand that letters by owl can be intercepted really easily and I think Lichfield would kill me if I did. He's my Litigator and was a bailiff for my grandfather_.'

_'__A bailiff?'_ Hermione thought_. 'That makes Harry sound like some sort of landed gentry_.'

_'__If this gets out before he's ready,'_ Harry continued,_ 'Lichfield says that we could get crushed in court and I'd be right back to the Dursleys_.'

She could definitely see why Harry would want to keep this close to his chest. She could only hope that he'd tell her when they saw each other next.

_'__I hope you understand; I trust you more than anyone_,' Hermione read and couldn't help but smile.

_'__And speaking of letters_-,' she read ominously as her blood began to run cold and the smile slid off her face._ 'I've got to say, I found yours much more interesting than Ron's. It's certainly not what I'd call basic stuff.'_

Hermione could only sigh in resignation as she contemplated throwing the rest of the letter away unread. Why did this have to happen _today?_ It had been such a good day, why did he have to ruin it by doing the _one thing_ she didn't want him to do? She really had no one to blame but herself.

_'__There may be some of the really recent stuff I can't tell you right now_,' she read curiously. _'-but I'd like to get to know you too_.'

Hermione's mind told her that this couldn't be happening.

_'__So, I guess the question now is… What do you want to know?'_

.o0O0o.

**AN:** I know I'm horrible for leaving it there, but feel free to tell me how horrible I am in a review.

That said, Hermione's mother being "Dr. Puckle" is a reference to the fact that JKR had almost had that as Hermione's last name before changing it to Granger. Of course, I decided to turn several fan fiction tropes on their heads when it came to the Grangers. The question to me wasn't: _"Why does Hermione study all the time and have no friends?"_ because that's always going to be the fanon response. Instead I asked: _"How does a young girl become the Hermione we see in _Sorcerer's Stone_?"_ Now _that_ question demands a much more complex and deeper psychological reason that you can then use to flesh out her _entire family_, as well as provide the character something to rebel against as she tries to determine _her own_ place in the world.

Thanks for reading.


	9. Hey You

**AN:** I've officially given up on trying to keep chapter lengths roughly even. If it takes fifteen thousand words to get from one point to another then so be it, I'm not splitting things up again.

A lot of this is going to be review since one character is _sort of _catching another one up on _some_ of what's going on, but it also plants the seeds for future events. If you want to bypass the subtleties and the Harry/Hermione development then it's your loss since this is what this story is about.

As you all should be aware by now, the narrator of this story is always going to _skew _things in the direction of whoever it is that I'm following at the time. Any far–fetched comparisons to animals should not be taken as a sign of natural animagi abilities.

.o0O0o.

Dan Granger was in his comfortable chair enjoying a Sunday morning spent reading quietly with his wife. That hers was the latest medical journal while his was the latest tabloid bothered neither in the slightest. He was just shaking his head in wonder at the outrageous headlines when he heard it, this high–pitched _squeal_ from somewhere up above. The sound of a door being thrown open was quickly followed by a herd of rampaging wildebeests rolling down the stairs and bouncing off the walls as it went.

One particularly wild wildebeest chose to make the most fantastic of entrances by _leaping_ the last several steps and landing in the most undignified fashion by stumbling to a halt, its mane streaming along behind it and young face alight. That this wildebeest was his daughter only puzzled him slightly. He had been encouraging her to let her inner Granger out more often and just be herself but he certainly didn't expect it to be such a smelly thing and certainly hoped it was housebroken.

His daughter saw her mother and instantly went into Protective Puckle Mode, face blank and body rigidly erect. This smaller Puckle model had the added feature of Proud Defiance though, so her head was held high as if daring its predecessor to do its worst.

"Since when do we allow running through the house?" Puckle Prime asked her daughter, glancing up from her reading with one eyebrow raised in the most Vulcan–like way.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Puckle," the little Puckle replied with a false smile in place as if its razor thin edge could cut. She never referred to her mother as her mother any more. A new development, now it was always Dad and Dr. Puckle.

"–I didn't know you'd be here," his daughter explained. "I was under the impression that you had a surgery to perform today," she said formally.

"I had one scheduled," Puckle Prime responded. "The man died last night from injuries sustained in the collision. Continuing as planned seemed a moot point after that."

He couldn't miss his wife's eyes glance down to what was absentmindedly clasped in Hermione's hand. Into the presence of this strong young bull his little Puckle had mistakenly brought the bright red of a matador's cape in the form a half–eaten Bournville bar.

He cleared his throat slightly and ruffled his tabloid, hoping to get his daughter's attention. She glanced in his direction long enough for him to shoot an urgent warning about the danger she literally carried. The Bournville shifted slightly and the color drained from the little Puckle's face as she realized what she'd done. Rather than hide it or flee, _his_ little Puckle did the only thing she could.

"Well, don't let me disturb you," she said as dignified as she could before withdrawing the rest of the half–eaten candy bar, stuffing it in her mouth, and giving it a good chew before walking away.

_'__The girl is_ mad,' he thought. _'And I like it. Wizarding world watch out!'_

The girl in question only got a few steps before Puckle Prime had to get in the last word.

"Make sure to brush your teeth."

The girl seemed to cringe for a moment before she disappeared into the kitchen.

_'__Hang on_,' the man thought, _'that's tacit _acceptance_. Did Hermione just _win_ against the Puckle?'_

The Puckle glanced in his direction and he gave her his widest wan smile, clearly meant to convey an 'I made that' sense of pride as he got up to follow his daughter, leaving his tabloid behind.

As he got to the door–less entry into the kitchen he found the open fridge door blocking his way and he stood still and tried to control his breathing lest it tip the little Puckle off to his presence. He _loved_ this part. The fridge door quickly closed, his sudden appearance scaring the life out of the girl as she jumped in alarm.

"Don't _do_ that!" the shocked little Puckle said as she calmed herself and rinsed the overwhelming taste of chocolate out of her mouth by drinking the skim milk she had commandeered from mother's supply. "I _hate it_ when you do that."

"But it's so much _fun_," he said, "and I can never sneak up on your mother."

His daughter rolled her eyes and shook her head at him.

_"__Well?"_ he prompted.

_"__Well_ what?" she asked in return clearly not in the mood to talk any more.

"Well, are you going to tell me why you went _'Eeeeee!'_ and decided to do cartwheels down the stairs?" he asked hoping to inject a bit of humor into the situation. "Or should I just _guess?"_

His daughter looked interested in finding out how good of a guesser he was.

"I take it you got a _response?"_ he asked in a way to solicit more information.

"Yes," she said neutrally, rinsing out her glass in the sink and setting it out to be properly washed. Though she had turned her head away from him, he couldn't help but notice the tiniest upturn tugging on her lips.

"And the result was _favorable?"_ he continued.

The war to keep from smiling intensified, and was finally lost as she blushed.

"He said he'd like to get to know me too," she informed him.

The father beamed. The daughter huffed and rolled her eyes again.

"You can go ahead and say it," the little Puckle said.

"Say what?" he asked, as if he honestly didn't know where she was going with this and truly hurt that she thought he'd mock this momentous new development.

"Go ahead and say _'I told you so,_'" the girl said. "–And that I should have just talked to him _myself_ from the beginning."

"Oh, pish, why would I say _'I told you so,_'" he started somberly, "–when saying _'I was right'_ sounds _so much_ better?" he finished smiling. "But!" he interjected to keep his daughter from leaving in a huff too soon. "Now that you've won against the Puckle, what are you going to do with the _rest_ of your summer?"

The little Puckle looked inwards as it reviewed its databanks on the last encounter with her predecessor.

"Is that what winning looks like?" she asked.

"The _dreaded Dr. Puckle_ saw you cram an _entire bar of chocolate_ in your mouth and all she said was _'Make sure to brush your teeth_'?" he reminded her. "That's either _you_ winning or _her_ way of saying that you've been fighting against a _barn door_ the entire time."

She seemed to think for a moment.

"I choose to win," she declared.

"That means I can eat candy," the dentist smiled.

Hermione looked up at him as if puzzled that this was all her great victory over her mother had meant to him.

"Well if _you_ can, _I_ can," he explained. "Go team," he said, giving her the 'thumbs up' gesture.

The girl gave her father a look that said she had severe doubts about whether she was actually related to him or not.

"I told Harry that we'd be going to Diagon Alley the Wednesday after we get our list of school supplies," she said, changing the subject.

"Ah, on _Wednesday_," he said sagely. "–The only day of the week this month that your mother can't go anywhere."

"Oh, was that _Wednesdays?"_ she asked innocently. "I must have forgotten."

"You know it was Wednesdays. Feigning ignorance was never your strong suit."

"Well, you wouldn't want to make me into a liar, would you?" she asked.

"I don't have to," her father said. "You already _are_ one. Good for you," he said with an oddly cheery tone. "Go on and tell this Harry that we'll be there. I take it that you're going to be writing to him more often then?" he asked.

"Of course," she said, as if he had asked if the sky was blue.

"Then–," he said as he gestured nebulously with his hands as he did when searching for the right wording that would let him avoid getting smacked by perturbed Puckles. "–You _might_ _not_ want to use that quill that's on your desk then."

"Why? What's wrong with my favorite quill?" Hermione asked concerned.

"Oh, nothing – nothing," he reassured her quickly. "But _that's_ not your favorite quill. That's a – hang on, I've got it here–" He rummaged through his pocket to produce a mangled package. _"'Get in touch with your innermost feelings_,'" the father read as a look of dread spread across his daughter's face, _"'with the Heartseeker Quill–_'"

Hermione snatched the folded packaging out of his hands to see for herself.

"You _pranked _me!" she asked, her voice starting an upward climb. "Where did you get this!"

"I got it at that nice Diagon Alley place," he said, his hands held out to ward off any incoming blows. "I thought it'd be a nice therapeutic tool but never could find a way to trick your mother into using it."

"You realize how _badly_ that could have gone?" she asked, her bushy mane seeming to get bigger with each passing moment.

"I only wanted you to be yourself," he said quickly. "In my defense, you said it went well. The man said that if you _really_ wanted to hide something it wouldn't _make you_ write it. It's just supposed to be a simple suggestion. Why, what did you say?"

"I told him that we should have _twenty kids_ and get started _right away!_ I guess next summer I'll be having a little _bundle_ to bring home with me," she said acidly.

The color drained from Dan Granger's face as he dropped his hands in defeat.

"Please tell me you're not serious."

"Of course I'm not serious!" Hermione said, smacking him in the chest. _"Now_ you know how _pranking_ feels."

"Ow," he complained, his hand rubbing his chest. "You can't do that to a parent, it's not playing fair."

"Mother taught me to _win,_ not to _play fair,_" she said shockingly assertively. "Maybe you should remember that I'm a _little bit_ Puckle, even if I'm _not_ a Little Puckle."

The wild beast that was his daughter stalked off back to her lair without a backwards glance.

_'__Not so much a wildebeest_,' the man thought to himself after a moment as he made his way back to his chair. _'More like the lions that _eat_ them. Definitely has the Puckle temper. Good thing she sees something positive about being one, _and_ she's calling her mother her mother again. Maybe if we can get a bit of that Granger softer side to show itself we could get a nice _blend_ going._' He shrugged. _'Maybe that Harry will be good for her_.'

"Congratulations," his wife said to him as he settled back into his chair.

"Pardon?" he asked.

"She's sullen, irritable, rebellious, she hates her parents, and there's a boy involved, unless I misinterpreted the squee from earlier," the good doctor fired off her check list as if listing a patent's symptoms, without ever looking up from her reading. "Your daughter's a teenager. You must be so happy."

"Happy? Ha!" the man cried as he kicked back and put his feet up with his recliner. "If _one_ of those were true, I'd be happy. With _all of them_ true – I'm _ecstatic_," he grinned.

She looked up from her reading.

"So you're not going to be the overprotective father and try to run the boy off before he can defile your daughter? That's very mature of you," she said neutrally, seeming to expose by accident the article she was reading about sexually transmitted diseases.

"I'm not going to let you get to me," he said, wagging his finger at her. "Today was a _good_ day."

The dreaded Dr. Puckle smiled one of her rare half–smiles as her husband concentrated overly hard on reading an article about a mad horse–faced woman in Surrey that claimed a horde of goblins and a rock star had stolen her washing machine.

.o0O0o. Arrives Early Sunday Afternoon .o0O0o.

Hey Harry,

As I sit down to write this I find that I have absolutely _no idea_ what to say. I'd ask what on Earth possessed you to read those letters – when I specifically told you _not_ to – except for the fact that you might suddenly change your mind. To be honest, I was terrified that you'd read them and dreading the response I'd get because the last thing I wanted was to ruin our friendship. Not that I'm not thrilled at the prospect of getting to know you better – it seems that between You–Know–Who, Hagrid's pets, and just school itself there doesn't seem to have been any time to really get to know your best friends very well at all.

Of course, just from your last letter alone I've got a hundred questions to ask, most of which you probably can't answer. Can I assume that the "something odd" that happened was that your mail wasn't being delivered for some reason? Ron thought it might have been his owl's fault – it really is an old bird that's on its last leg – I had been using it when it delivered mail here because of how impersonally Imogen behaves and the fact that I knew you'd be somewhere in between my place and his.

I'd ask how anything could intercept an owl but that would probably be close to the top of the "I can't talk about that" list, so instead I'll try to be as vague in my questions about those sensitive topics as possible. From the consequences of 'whatever it is that's going on' getting out before you're ready, I can understand why you'd want to keep things a secret, at least for now. I can only hope to be filled in once you're able to.

I'm very glad about the change in your situation; I was really starting to worry about that. The silence coming from your end made me think that all sorts of horrible things might've been happening there. I can only _hope _that it wasn't the case. If it _was _though, I've heard that those who go through that are prone to not want to talk about it, but should you ever decide that you _do_ want to talk, know that I'm always here for you.

Can I assume that whatever legal troubles you have at the moment are about the family situation you've always disliked and your desire to make the new situation permanent, and _not _about what happened before the end of term? If not, should I get legal counsel as well and how would I go about doing that?

You mentioned a grandfather's bailiff. The use of that rather archaic title, and where you are now, would suggest that this was for your father's side. I'm glad that you've got someone who's able to help you, especially one who may be able to tell you more about your family. It's just not _right _that you know so little about how they died and nothing at all about how they lived. I do hope that he's able to shed some light on that subject for you.

It was sweet for the Weasleys to have a party for you, and for Bill to let you have his old room. Ron always mentions his oldest brothers in such _legendary _terms that it's hard to believe they're real. So what was he like? Did he say what Egypt is like? What does he do there? Does he know any interesting Egyptian magic? How does it compare to ours? It sounds like such an amazing opportunity to learn what another culture is like; I do hope you took advantage of it. But I suppose hoping for that is like hoping that you've been studying. –smile–

As for me, I actually _have_ been studying. Professor McGonagall was incredibly busy with finding all of this year's new students – I had no idea how much work was involved – but she managed to find the time to send me a few mental exercises and depictions of wand movements that she said would make the transfiguration work easier this year. I've actually been able to study up a bit too. A copy of the Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 showed up on the same day as McGonagall's letter. She didn't say anything in her letter about sending it so I think it may have come from Professor Flitwick.

Before that, I was pretty much just stuck at home and not really able to do anything. Now that I'm no longer enrolled at my old school I'm not allowed to check out books there anymore, which is a shame since it's only about two blocks away and had a nice summer check–out program. They wanted to make an exception since I was such a good student but Mrs. Bidwell said that she _had_ to say no. And with the public library being so far away–

It left me with a lot time to revise my notes from last year and read up a bit on History of Magic though. It's such a shame that the teacher is such a bore when the subject is so interesting. I must say though that I've found that besides the basic facts and dates a great deal of what Bagshot includes seems to be unsubstantiated third– and fourth–hand accounts that makes everything seem far too much like myth than actual history and she doesn't seem to believe in using any form of citation at all. Something tells me that the scholastic heights of the wizarding world is rather thin and lacking the intellectual rigor of their muggle counterpart.

When it comes to my home life, I may just have to wait to tell you about that until things are less emotionally charged. My mother and I have been at odds and I'm rather upset at my father at the moment. Besides that, there's frightfully little to tell, I think. My parents are both dentists, I've lived in the same house and have gone to the same school before entering Hogwarts. My dad's even had the same car since the 70s.

All that said; I'm rather wary about asking about _your _life lest it bring up some issues that you'd be uncomfortable dealing with. I did mean what I said before though, I'm here for you if you want to talk, and if you don't want me to repeat anything, I won't. I want to get to know you because you're my friend, not just because I happen to like you as well, and that means accepting you, warts and all.

Love always, Hermione

.o0O0o. Arrives Very Late Sunday Evening/Early Monday Morning .o0O0o.

Hey Hermione,

I know exactly what you mean about not knowing what to say. Even after I got going I had to figure out what I _could_ say and what I couldn't. I'm glad you understand about that. I promise to let you know what's going on as soon as I can.

It was actually you telling me that I should bin them that got me to read those letters in the first place. It was such an unHermione–like thing to say that I simply _had_ to read them. I can only imagine what it was like to say all that and then be left waiting for a response that never came. It must've been awful. How could you think I'd say no though? You're my best friend. I can't think of anything better than to get to know you, and if the big grin I have right now is anything to go by then I'd have to say I like you too.

And thanks for mentioning Hagrid's pets. That reminds me to send him a response to his letter; I'll send it along with this one, though that'll mean you'll have to use Imogen to send your reply. I thought it might've just been _me _she didn't like. Maybe if you start using her more often she'd lighten up a bit?

Anyway, in his letter Hagrid mentioned that he had gotten me something for my birthday only it had escaped before he could send it, so I wanted to let him know that I appreciate the thought more than having any animal he could find. Besides Hedwig, who's much more like family to me, I'm not sure I'm that much of a pet person. The Dursleys certainly wouldn't have approved and likely would've taken it to the pound. Now that I'm away from there I wouldn't want to impose on the Weasleys any more than I already am. The way things turned out, Bill and the goblins not only turned up with my school things but my entire bedroom set as well, so I guess I can no longer claim to travel light. They even stole Aunt Petunia's washing machine!

You're right about that being the "something odd" that prevented me from getting my letters. What _actually_ happened turns out to be something that would get a new friend of mine into a lot of trouble, so I'll have to wait until I can introduce you to tell you the whole story about that. As it happens, that event is what got me out of "the family situation" and started all the legal problems.

Those legal problems only deal with me and aren't about that thing that happened at the end of term, so you wouldn't need a litigator. I wouldn't know where to start looking for one of those on my own. I didn't see any magical law offices in Diagon Alley, but at the time I didn't know to look for them. Lichfield happens to work for – another place – and is taking my case as an extension of his former bailiff duties _and_ to help that employer. I think I should keep all that a secret for now, but if a certain thing happens that they're expecting to happen, I may be able to tell you a lot more before too long.

You're right about Lichfield though, from what's been said he actually knew my grandfather since their Hogwarts days. Turns out that his name was Charlus. I kind of got the feeling that he and my grandfather were best friends. He kept saying stuff like, "that's what Charlus would do." He didn't say anything about my _grandmother_ but maybe he was just more his friend than hers. Then again, from what I heard, _her_ grandfather was a Hogwarts headmaster the likes of Malfoy and was so bad that the goblins today still call him "Phineas the Foul," so maybe he didn't like her and didn't want to say. He didn't say much about my parents either though besides the fact that he'd only met them a few times, so who knows. Apparently I met him as a baby.

Speaking of which, it turns out my name is Harold and nobody ever told me. Looks like my mother named me after _her_ father and _he_ had been named Harold, though everyone called him Harry. For all the official _grown up_ stuff I've decided to use the name Harold, since it makes me sound older and more responsible, while my friends can still call me Harry.

Bill was a nice guy; looked like a rock star though. He was not what I was expecting _at all_. I guess that's what comes from being a Curse–breaker. I missed most of the Cairo conversation because Mr. Weasley kept me glued to his side all night asking me things like what the purpose of a rubber duck was and how airplanes stayed up. From what I heard it sounded like Bill's job was all about breaking into old tombs and dealing with mummies while looking for treasure. It makes him sound like Indiana Jones.

Speaking of that, I got something from Ron's little sister that's – well, it's quite disturbing actually. If you _promise_ not to make fun of me or tell anyone how embarrassing it'd be for me to be ribbed for it, then I'll send it to you with my next letter. It looks like she grew up with a whole bunch of them and had kind of fallen in love with them. She actually fainted when I arrived. It's made things rather awkward and she's avoided me ever since, but I _did _manage to save her from being eaten by a couch later on. She asked me not to tell anyone about that but I think she just meant not to tell her brothers. I feel kind of bad for her, but it also doesn't seem right to be around her since – well, since I'm already getting to know you.

I should have known that you'd find some way to get a new book, even when you _haven't _been to Diagon Alley yet. That first letter of yours made me think that you'd start up a summer check–out program for Hogwarts as soon as you got back just to make sure that you wouldn't be without a book to read ever again. Hang on – is that why you're so good? You've been studying ahead all this time? Now that I think about it, you _did_ say on the train that you'd already tried a few spells. Just how long _have_ you been studying magic?

You can stop making fun of me for not doing the same though. I actually managed to get almost an hour in on Charms before Ron came in to drag me into a two–on–two Quidditch game with Fred and George, not that he had to drag me that hard. I also plan on maybe another hour or two after dinner. I've had to tell them that I _can't_ tell them about what's going on either, though they do know a tiny bit. They seem to think I'm writing to Lichfield now. Knowing what kind of stuff Fred and George would get up to if they knew the truth, I'm happy to let them think so. I hadn't noticed that about History of Magic, maybe I'll look at that tonight. If all else fails I can imagine Binn's droning voice and I'll be out like a light in no time.

Sorry to hear that you and your parents aren't getting along. It's not about me, or about us writing to each other, is it? I don't want to get you in trouble. I was going to say that we could always just talk in person once we get back to Hogwarts, but with Ron and everyone else there too that might be harder than it sounds. It's not like we could talk in the library without Madam Pince kicking us out. It makes me wonder how the older students get to know each other in the first place.

That reminds me, that new friend of mine warned me that "terrible things" were going to happen at Hogwarts this year. He couldn't say what it was, or who was behind it. He was pretty much only interested in making sure I stayed safe, even if that meant staying at the Dursleys. Luckily I managed to talk him into helping me instead. I'm hoping he'll be able to tell me more once I can see him again. Either way we should be on our guard.

When it comes to my previous "family situation," it was nothing compared to what this new friend went through. The Dursleys may have kept me in the cupboard under the stairs, let Dudley steal my food, have me do their yard work, yelled at me every time anything "abnormal" happened, and never given me anything for Christmas or my birthday but at least they didn't make me punish myself regularly, let alone remind me to do _extra_ punishments. He actually said he'd have to "shut his ears in the oven door" just for coming to see me.

The fact that I'm away from the Dursleys and looking forward to never seeing them again is all because of him. I told Lichfield to do whatever he could to get him out of that situation and that I didn't care how much it cost, so hopefully he'll be away from his family soon too. From talking to that new friend I learned that people sometimes have a big red button that it's better for people not to push. The Dursleys might be a bit of a button, but at least it doesn't have me ram my head against the wall like his did. I'm just glad to see the last of them and don't care what happens to them from here on out.

Well, that's not really a cheerful topic to end on but I can't really think of anything else to say. So what were the kids like at your old school and did you ever do anything odd that must've been magic?

Anyway, it's almost time for dinner so I better go get ready. Mrs. Weasley is a really good cook. After that, Ron will probably beat me at chess again before I make it back to the room. Even though it has all my stuff in it, it seems strange to call it "my room" when it's in _Ron's_ house.

Always yours, Harry

.o0O0o. Arrives Early Monday Afternoon .o0O0o.

Hey Harry,

I guess I should have known that it would be a gamble to put that in there but I was in such a rush to write to you before you had a chance to read them that I didn't think it could have the opposite effect. I guess I really shouldn't complain though. As for the response that never came, well, that was a bit awful. I kept thinking that I had completely ruined our friendship and really crazy things like you and Ron were laughing about it behind my back, and that's not something you would do at all. I must say though that this big grin I got from reading that you like me might even make dealing with Imogen a pleasant experience.

It's a pity about you and pets. I wonder what the pound would do if Hagrid had sent you a Fluffy Jr. I had been thinking of getting one myself. Not a Cerberus of course, maybe a cat. Something where the hair would get all over the place and stand out would _really_ get to my mother. Then again, now that I've won one victory it might not be time to press my luck. I'll try Imogen more often, but she'll probably bolt almost as soon as she arrives, she always has with Dad's letters to me.

Oh, I've just _got_ to tell you! You made the tabloids! My father has the habit of reading them; he says he finds them funny. Anyway, you were on the front page! Well, not _you_ exactly, it was your aunt. At least I _assume_ it was your aunt because it really couldn't be anyone else. Her name was Petunia Dursley, she lives in Surrey, and she claimed that a rock star and a horde of goblins had stolen her washing machine! I've enclosed the article so you can read all about it.

Why would you think I'd make fun of you? Maybe whatever she gave you is only funny in the muggle context; if Fred and George haven't made a joke about it yet then you're probably safe. It couldn't be any worse than having Indiana Weasley and the Goblins of Doom at your beck and call like you're Ali Baba and they're your forty thieves. I appreciate your loyalty but you _do_ know you can have other friends besides me, right? What's her name anyway? We can't just keep calling her 'Ron's little sister.'

Who's this _other_ new friend you mentioned, the one that got you away from the Dursleys? His family sounds absolutely horrible. You're doing right thing by getting him out of there. I'm so proud of you. If you think it'd be too much of an imposition on the Weasleys, I could always ask my parents if we could take him in, at least until school starts. Does the wizarding world have some sort of Child Protection System to help children in need like that? What about a child placement or adoptive services? It's not just about getting him away from the abuse; it's also about getting him into a good environment.

Don't worry about me and my parents; it actually has nothing to do with you. Well, not really. My Dad's been really supportive, a little _too_ supportive actually. He pranked me with a magical quill so I'd be "more in touch with my innermost feelings" when I wrote that first letter. I still haven't completely forgiven him for how spectacularly _wrong_ it could have gone, though the washing machine and telling him that I had said that we should have _20 kids immediately_ has helped even things out. For now that quill is being kept in my book bag so I know where it is at all times and he can't do it again. I swear; the man's such a child. It's like having Fred _and_ George as your father, except he's actually nice to talk to from time to time.

As for my mother, she's a bit of a button. A really big button that flashes and beeps and shocks you no matter what you do. Not quite to the point of making me run into a wall, which I hope you were joking about, but she has made me cry on more than one occasion. Excuse me while I go curl up for a while. Okay, I'm back. Sorry, it seems like she's even less of a cheerful topic than the Dursleys are. Maybe we should just avoid both of those for a while.

Let's see, what haven't I covered? Oh! I managed to find that relative of yours in _Hogwarts, a History_. They didn't call him "Phineas the Foul," but they _did_ say that his tenure was "a dark time for Hogwarts marked by strain with the goblins and division amongst the Houses," not to mention the _near_ _abandonment_ of Hogsmeade, so it's got to be Phineas Nigellus Black, the only Slytherin ever to be appointed Headmaster. You'd think there'd be more than that, seeing how the position is so influential on future generations, not to mention Hogsmeade itself.

And speaking of the village, if you're really interested in how older students get to know each other, Third Years and up are allowed to visit Hogsmeade on certain scheduled weekends and those occasions have become a rather traditional time for many first dates. There may be more than a year between now and then but at least that's something to look forward to. I think Ron and the others are likely to be an issue no matter where we talk though. It's doubtful they'd let the opportunity to poke fun or prank us slide, and I'd really like _not_ to be banned from the Library for life.

So you're a Harold? I must admit, Harold Potter is going to take some getting used to. It certainly makes you sound older. My Dad liked it better when I was writing to _Harry_ rather than when I said I'd be writing to _Harold_, so I may just have to tease him with that a bit. I guess to him _Harold _sounds like someone who already shaves and drives a car. He did turn it around on me though and said, "No wonder you're so mature for your age, between Har_old_ and Ron_ald_ you hang out with two '–old' men." That should give you a picture of what my Dad is like.

It's a pity that this Lichfield couldn't tell you much about what _your_ Dad was like, though I guess it's early. There's no telling what he could tell you in time. Still, getting to know about your grandparents is nothing to sneeze at. Both of my Dad's parents died years before I was born and my mother was adopted and never knew, or cared, about her biological parents and I doubt her adoptive ones ever knew what to make of her, not like anyone does.

I must say that I'm proud of you _again_ for studying. If you keep up the hard work maybe you'll find that spending some time in the Library isn't such a bad thing after all. I don't expect to see you in there _all the time_, but if you _happen_ to drop by, I'll make sure to save a seat for you.

A summer check–out program for Hogwarts is a _great_ idea. If they have all those owls then they might as well use them. I'm sure they'd know some way they could use magic to make sure that the books make their way back on time and don't get damaged. I wonder if anyone's around during the summer to run it. I'll have to talk to Professor McGonagall, and probably Madam Pince, to see if we can set something up.

Now I wouldn't say that studying ahead is the _only_ reason I happen to be at the top of the class, I actually _did_ do a lot of studying during the year itself you know. I must admit that I did have a bit of a lead though, but nothing compared to what those with wizarding families would have if they just applied themselves.

From what I remember, I think McGonagall said they were trying out a new system and approaching everyone close to their birthdays, rather than all at once during the summer. I can only assume they've stopped and went back to the old way since she's spent _this_ summer chasing down the new students for this year. Anyway, that means I had almost a year between when I got my letter and when we started Hogwarts. But when you compare that to the _years_ of education magical families could provide their children, a year doesn't really amount to much at all.

And as for trying a few simple spells – well, McGonagall could tell that I _really_ wanted to get started, she said she had been the same way when _she_ was eleven, and said that _after_ we start school that we wouldn't be allowed to practice magic at home, but _before_ we start, as long as we didn't do it _too much,_ the Ministry tends to cut new students a good bit of slack. As my Dad said, you can't give a bunch of kids a magic wand and expect them not to use it a time or two, even by accident.

I only _did_ use it for a few simple spells though, and that was because my Dad thought we should make sure everything worked like it should. Besides that it was a lot of reading, quizzes, and some flash card drills. My Dad turned out to be really good at picking out questions the professors were likely to ask, he said it came from being a Teacher's Assistant in college. I should really get him to do that again before we get our other books.

The kids at my last school were alright, I liked the teachers better though. _They_ always liked it when we studied hard and applied ourselves; some of the other girls got snippy whenever anyone else did better than they did. But it shouldn't be surprising that they didn't do well when they wouldn't even crack a book and expected the answers to just fall into their lap, or worse, expected them to be provided for them just because they were pretty, popular, and had a group of friends that did whatever they said.

Sorry, I was just remembering the school "popular girl," Sheryl. She tried to pick on me once and stole my homework. I got _so mad_ at her that for the entire day she couldn't speak a word. So much for Sheryl trying to make herself look good by reading off _my_ answers to the class. Since I had _actually done the homework_ I was able to do the work _again_ really quickly, and that made me look even better for answering the questions after _poor Sheryl_ was left almost in tears because she couldn't talk. They eventually had to send her home. She never tried _that_ again.

I suppose the whole "my room" thing could be because you know it's temporary, or just because you haven't settled in yet. My dorm at Hogwarts doesn't feel like it's "my room" either, and we spend almost ten months there. I don't know if it's just because I have to share with other people or it's what those people are talking about, but it's hard to feel at home when Lavender and Parvati are giggling over fashion and trading the latest gossip. I think they're the reason I rarely saw Sally–Anne and that other dorm mate of ours she always went around with. I'm not sure I know her name; Fay, I think. _They_ avoided the Talkative Two like the plague.

Well, I guess I should give Imogen a try. I hope this works.

Love always, Hermione

.o0O0o. Arrives Monday Evening .o0O0o.

Hey Hermione,

Don't tell this to Hedwig but I think Imogen might be faster. Your last letter didn't get here until late evening. I don't know how long I've got on this. She _really_ doesn't like being locked in Hedwig's cage. I thought that might keep her from flying away but it just made her go _mad_ as soon as I removed the letter. I think I'm going to have to send her off with this _now_ and try again once Hedwig gets back.

Always yours, Harry

P.S. She bit me!

.o0O0o. Arrives Tuesday Morning .o0O0o.

Hey Harry,

She looked rather ruffled when she arrived and flew off to her tree as soon as she could, so I don't think Imogen enjoyed that trip at all. I think I'll wait until tomorrow morning before I try sending her again. If I ask her very nicely to wait on a response, maybe that'll help. It might take a bit of groveling on your part to make amends though. –smile–

Since your letter was so short there's not much for me to respond to. I can only guess at what you're likely to say when you can finally send your full response to my last letter so it's not like I can preemptively answer questions when you might ask something completely different. I wish I had made copies of my letters so I could have a better idea at what you're likely to ask.

How long do you think it'll be before Hedwig gets back? I really should look up the different owl species to check on their flying speed. Perhaps they'll have something on temperament as well. There's got to be _something_ out there that'll explain why Imogen is the way she is. Do you think magical post owls might pick up a bit of the personality of their owners? My mother was the one who picked out Imogen and she's always reminded me of her. I'll see what I can find.

Hey Harry, I just got back from my old school library. The librarian let me slip in since Mrs. Bidwell was out that day and said that as long as I didn't check anything out, she didn't have to know I was ever there. It was amazing! I never thought I'd _not_ want to be a witch and just stay in my normal school but what they've got there is phenomenal.

I'd never believe it possible but they have a computer there that can use a _telephone _to call other computers and look up information on whatever you want! They call it the Internet and it'll probably be everywhere soon. It's like if all the books in the library were all hooked together with magic and all you had to do was pull one of them down and _ask_ them something and you'd open it to find all the information you could ever want on that topic. Isn't that unbelievable? The wizarding world _has got to have_ something like this; it just _has to_ because the possibilities for schoolwork and research are so tremendous.

Sorry, I got a little carried away. I looked up a bit on the different owl species. Imogen is a tawny owl, and they actually _are _faster than the snowy owl, though I certainly wouldn't tell that to Hedwig. I think I've found something that may explain Imogen's behavior though. Tawny owls are solitary, non–migratory, and very territorial. This might explain why Imogen flies back as soon as she can, her instincts must be _screaming_ at her to get back here, and since she's not naturally used to traveling or being around others, let alone being around either of us, that explains why she wouldn't want to hang around any longer than she has to. They've also been known to starve if they can't find a stable source of food within a stable territory so she'd also likely be concerned about intruders taking over her spot while she's gone.

I did notice several inconsistencies though. Tawny owls are supposed to be nocturnal and snowy owls are diurnal (meaning they're active during the day), but _both_ seem to be active at both times of the day and, I suppose, sleep whenever they can. Female snowy owls are also supposed to have flecks of black or gray in their feathers as well, only the _males_ are supposed to be completely white. All of that, and the fact that Imogen seems fine when delivering mail but reverts to her natural impulses once the mail is removed, tells me that there has to be magic involved.

I don't think whoever provides these owls to the shops would _purposely_ do anything they thought would hurt the owls, but changing their normal sleep cycle to be more convenient for us can't be good for them when they've evolved to be the other way around. Neither can changing Hedwig's coloration to be pure white. While it certainly makes her look pretty to us, it'd be a shame if she never found a mate and had a clutch of her own just because all the other snowy owls thought she was male.

Oh, I also learned that snowy owls have been known to hunt and eat other birds and that tawny owls are often _at risk_ from larger birds, so Imogen might see Hedwig as a natural predator, which explains why I've never seen her around when Hedwig shows up. I haven't seen them go after each other so I can only hope that some of that magic would be used to prevent owl–on–owl violence, otherwise the whole owl post system would be at risk and I'd hate to see what the Owlery at Hogwarts would be like then.

Anyway, I think that's enough of that for this letter so I think I'll see if Imogen's up for another trip.

Love always, Hermione

.o0O0o. Arrives Tuesday Afternoon .o0O0o.

Hey Hermione,

Things are much quieter now that Imogen's gone. I didn't realize just how loud she'd been until Mrs. Weasley came in wondering if I had been torturing Hedwig. She suggested I try Hermes, that's the owl they got Percy when he made Prefect, since Erroll's so shoddy but Percy said he was using him.

Percy's actually been spending more time than his room than _I_ have. I feel kind of bad about that. Ron asked me to come visit so many times, and I've been itching to get here all summer, and now that I'm here I spend half the time in this room that I've kind of stolen from them. But at the same time I can't really feel too bad about it because it's time I kind of get to spend with you. I mean, I know you're on the other side of the country, but when I'm here writing to you it kind of feels like you're here, if that makes any sense at all.

Anyway, I can only say sorry for that response that never came, or I guess I should say the response that was really really late. That new friend would say he's sorry too if he could. He actually felt really bad about stopping my letters, but since that's what lead to us being friends and the two of us writing to each other now, I guess I can't be too mad at him.

Even if he _hadn't_ done what he did, I still wouldn't have been able to write to you since Uncle Vernon had locked Hedwig in her cage and all my things were locked up in the cupboard under the stairs. So, in a weird way, having those letters delivered properly actually would have made being at the Dursleys _worse_ since I would have known you liked me, not been able to respond, and _then_ known that by not responding I was making _your_ life worse. I probably would've run away _earlier_ if _that_ had happened.

As much as I'd like to tell you about that new friend, I don't think I can. It doesn't look like our mail's being intercepted but just knowing his name and what his family's like was enough to give Lichfield something to go on to track them down and I don't want anything to get in the way of getting him out of there. _No one_ should have to go through what he's been through. Not even Snape or Malfoy – well, maybe – no, not even them.

The less I tell you about what the Ministry does with kids the better off this conversation will be because _I'm_ one of them. I think it'd be best that he stay with me once he's out of there. I know the Weasleys would treat him well and there's no one else in the wizarding world I trust except Lichfield, and he's already got his hands full. Your place would be out for magical reasons.

You said a bailiff was an old title? What do they _do _anyway? I got the impression that it was a bunch of legal stuff and helping my grandfather deal with rents and leases and the people on our land. I have to get used to saying _our_ land or _the_ land because my family still _owns _it even if other people are living on it, and whenever I started to call it _their_ land (meaning the people who actually _live_ on it) Lichfield looked like he was going to poke me. And if you ever saw Lichfield you wouldn't want his poking finger anywhere near you.

Anyway, are you sure you don't want a Cerberus? I'm sure Hagrid would let you have Fluffy if you said he'd be in a good home. At the very least he'd be out of that corridor. I imagine your dad would love to have him and if _that_ didn't annoy your mum and get hair everywhere then nothing would.

And thanks so much for the tabloid article! That was them alright. It's probably the first time I ever smiled when I saw the Dursleys. Lichfield said something about letting them go the authorities if they didn't like the goblins taking my stuff and it looks like they did. Now the whole country thinks they're crazy. That alone has made this whole thing worthwhile. The only thing they ever cared about was what other people thought of them so now that Aunt Petunia is _the crazy goblin lady _I can see their precious social calendar being empty in no time.

I'll take that Indiana Weasley comment as your promise and you'd better remember you made it when you see what I'm sending. I'll try to attach both it and this letter to Imogen before I remove your letter, if she gets back before Hedwig does that is. That way if she flies off again right away then at least she'll be carrying something back to you. I haven't looked inside it yet; I don't really think I want to know what happens in them. It might make being in the same room with Ginny _worse_ than it is now.

That's Ron's little sister, by the way, and I don't think she's looking for friendship. I've seen her watching from her room when we play Quidditch and looking at me when we're playing chess or exploding snap. Half the time she looks at me like she wishes I would leave, the rest of the time she seems disappointed that I'm not someone else. She's already said that she doesn't want _me;_ she wants the person from the book I'm sending you. She didn't know I heard it when she said it but it was pretty obvious afterwards when the couch swallowed her up. I think she's disappointed that I don't measure up to, well, _me_.

And twenty kids? That's three times more than the Weasleys! I hope you have a big house. You haven't started planning out their names yet, have you? Apparently the _whole wizarding world _expects them to be named James and Lily after my parents. Not that it's a _bad_ idea; I just wish they had let _me_ think of it first. Twenty is a lot of Jameses and Lilies though; it'd probably get confusing pretty quick. I suppose we could always call them by number instead.

I can see what you were saying about your Dad. That _does _sound like a Fred and George thing to do, but I kind of see why he did it. You're not _still_ using it, are you? Because, to be honest, I don't remember you being this relaxed or funny _all year_. Where was _this _Hermione, and is she the one that's going to be with us this year? Because if she _is, _that seat in the Library might just be filled more often than not.

And since it's only a year away, I guess I should go ahead and ask if you'd like to go to Hogsmeade with me _now_ so that no one else can come in and ask before I get a chance to. That seems like the _Harold _thing to do. That way I have a whole _year _to mess things up and for them to prank us before you have to say no.

So I'm related to a _Slytherin_ Headmaster? It doesn't surprise me that he'd be a Slytherin. I guess I was just hoping there'd been some kind of mistake. I suppose it makes sense why the Sorting Hat wanted to put _me_ in Slytherin then. It kind of goes in families, doesn't it? My Dad and Mum might've been Gryffindors but both of my Dad's parents could've been Slytherins and their parents before them, and how would I ever know?

Could you imagine _me_ having to room with Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle? And to think, I visit the hospital wing often enough as it is. If I got Sorted _there _I might as well just move in with Madam Pomfrey. I guess me being a Slytherin would also make sense since I _did_ set a boa constrictor on my cousin Dudley once at the zoo. I didn't _mean to,_ we'd just been talking and it said it had never been to Brazil, so when Dudley _pushed _me out of the way the glass keeping it in was just _gone_ and off it went. That didn't pay him back for _also_ being my bully at school, but it _was_ funny. Still, I guess that was better than somehow ending up on the top of the school roof when running from his Harry Hunt and not being able to get back down. Being able to make my Uncle Vernon be quiet for an entire day would've been a nice trick to have. I wonder if that snake ever made it to Brazil.

I wasn't actually _serious _about that check–out program. That was _supposed _to be a joke. Lesson learned, _never _joke with Hermione when it comes to books. Don't worry though; I _know _you studied during the year. I happened to have been _right there_ for a good bit of it. I wish _I_ had whole year of extra study before Hogwarts; it would've made dealing with _Malfoy _easier. How would flash cards for magic even work anyway? You put the spell on one side and the wand movement on the other? You _did_ master swish–and–flick a little _too_ quickly.

The Ministry seems to have a lot of loopholes when it comes to magic outside of Hogwarts. Did you know that they can't tell who is casting magic in a magical home, or even if they're underage? Seems like they just ignore it and let the parents sort it out when there are older witches and wizards about. Magic in a _muggle _home though would be spotted instantly, they'd assume it's _you_, and _you'd _be given a warning. It's totally unfair, but then again, so is reading ahead while all I can do is try a few _simple_ spells myself, just to see if they work. I'm not saying _I did that,_ but don't tell anyone though, it's still illegal and they might try to cause trouble. Also, could you imagine what the Ministry would do if everyone found out that it worked that way? It'd only make things _worse,_ and you wouldn't want that on your conscience, would you?

Always yours, Harry

.o0O0o. Arrives Later Tuesday Afternoon – In the middle of the next letter .o0O0o.

Hey Hermione,

I guess the fastenings weren't tight enough because the book didn't go when Imogen did. She didn't look to be in a forgiving mood either. I'll try to send it with this letter later.

Was the Internet really that good that you'd give up magic? It'd be awfully lonely at Hogwarts without you. Who'd save me a seat in the Library or go to Hogsmeade with me then?

I think I remember hearing something about that computer stuff once. I think it was Uncle Vernon saying something about replacing all the workers in the factory with machines that he could tell what to do. If he did that though then who would he yell at?

That thing about connecting books together sounds really interesting though. It'd certainly make our essays for Potions easier to get through.

I'll have to remember all that about tawny owls for the next time Imogen stops by. Maybe if I show her a nice tree here to call her own that might make her more comfortable.

Hedwig's supposed to have black on her feathers? It'd definitely look odd now that I've gotten used to seeing her all white, but with the way she is it _would_ be a shame if she never found a mate. You think we should ask someone about that? Hagrid's gamekeeper and he's never said anything. Then again, if it wasn't about a baby dragon he might not even notice. Wasn't there a class or something that dealt with animals? I think I remember hearing something about a professor who kept losing bits of fingers and things because of them. Then again, if he keeps being eaten then he might not be that good of a professor.

Speak of the devil, Hedwig's back! I better wrap this up. She didn't seem quite up for another trip, at least until I said that this could always wait until _your _owl got back and _she_ could carry it for me. _That_ got her. You might want to let her rest there though, she's probably tuckered out. And make sure to give her a very well done from me.

Harry

.o0O0o. Arrives Early Wednesday Afternoon .o0O0o.

OH MY GOD! First you _run away from home _and _now_ you're doing illegal magic? And you're not even getting in trouble for it while _I_ can't do the same? That is _so unfair!_ I should write to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and tell them what you're doing, or _worse_, Professor McGonagall. I'm not going to though. If I did that then you might get _expelled_ and I'd never see you again, not to mention you'd hate me and never want to talk to me again.

It's just – I never hated being a muggleborn until now. I know you probably don't see it, but that's only because even though you're muggle–_raised_ and not muggle–_born_ (that's one of the things I actually like _most_ about you), people don't treat you that way. Everything is just so stacked against people with our background though. It's like we've barged into someone's private little clubhouse where we're not wanted and never should have been, and now they're trying everything they can to get us to leave. _You_ seem to be the only exception, and _that's_ because you're the Boy–Who–Lived.

I get _one_ little advantage so I could put my best foot forward, only to find that there's a _huge_ disadvantage on the other side that'll last for _years_ while everyone else can go running off ahead if they like. I might as well be standing still or going _backwards_. Even if no one knows about it, like you _imply,_ it's still there to be used against us. My father says I should try to beat them at their own game if I can, but how do I _do _that when it seems like the rules only apply to _me?_ It's like _I'm_ a pawn, everyone else is a queen, and the other side of the board is a million miles away. How can I ever even _hope_ to catch up?

I know I shouldn't get like this, but I can't help it. I'm a worrier. I'm sure you'll do right by your new friend. The Weasleys sound nice, and I can't say there are any hard feelings about the letter. I'd hate to think the Ministry would be so – _incompetent_ when it came to looking after people they're supposed to serve but I guess if they actually _knew_ what they were doing then the laws they pass actually _would_ make things worse rather than being something you can just brush aside most of the time.

To answer your question, what a muggle bailiff did actually changed over time and varied depending on where you were. What _you _describe is like the ones that served some lord or landed gentry (a form of quasi–lower noble whose living could be maintained purely through the collection of rents) hundreds of years ago in the muggle world. Some of _their _bailiffs were like police officers, court officials, or dealt with all sorts of issues relating to administration and land use. I'd ask just how much land we're talking about but I'm afraid it'd make me sound shallow. I never thought about what the agricultural side of the wizarding world must be like. It really goes to show how much there still is to learn.

The book you said you were sending never made it here, so I assume that you weren't able to attach it. The way you described what you had gotten from this Ginny girl made it sound like it was some sort of Harry Potter doll collection, which was rather funny; like a bunch of teddy bears with scars sown on their foreheads. I didn't even _think_ that it'd be a book. I mean, I knew you were mentioned in _Modern Magical History,_ _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts,_ and _Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century,_ but they were little more than blurbs really. All they did was vaguely mention what happened and how it was _so_ _mysterious_ as to how you survived and what that might mean for your future.

One thing _I_ _wouldn't_ survive is having Fluffy as a pet. Even if he didn't _eat me_, my mother would kill me while my father would stand around saying that I had brought it on myself. If I want to get _technical_ though, and you know I love to, I never _actually_ promised not to pick on you about it. –smile– That said, I guess now I'm going to have to wait for Hedwig to get back and you send that book, just to see how bad it _actually is _before I send this letter.

If this Ginny grew up with books about you, and she acts _that_ way, it makes me wonder what kind of books they are. If she's looking at you like that then she's probably built these elaborate castles in the air when it came to you, so she might _actually_ _be_ disappointed that you don't measure up. If that's the case, then her loss is my gain because you're an absolutely amazing person – even if you _are_ a bit Slytherin.

You admit to _running away_, doing _illegal_ magic, _consorting_ with new friends who _also_ do illegal things, are being very secretive about _all of it,_ and try to _guilt me_ into not revealing a word – and in the same letter you ask me out? _No wonder_ the Sorting Hat didn't know where to put you; that's cunning, courageous, ambitious, _and_ daring all at the same time. You'd be a shoo–in for Slytherin if they weren't all blonde pureblood bigots with slick–backed hair whose sneer is bigger than their brain nowadays. Who knows what they were like back in your grandparents' day but if the way your dad turned out is any indication, they must've been made from a better cut of cloth.

And really, when you get technical about it, you only said that you _should_ do that so that no one else can do it first. And since I was a hair's breadth away from being in Ravenclaw I can say that I'm much too clever to fall for that. I don't have to answer you at all then since you _really didn't_ ask me out in the first place.

And speaking of Slytherin, when you said you were talking to a snake, was the _snake _doing the talking in English or were _you_ doing the speaking to it? As bizarre as finding a magical talking snake in a muggle zoo would be the _other _sounds like – Oh! Hedwig's back! You _manipulated Hedwig_ into delivering this? She'll _definitely_ be staying here. I might just keep her with me from now on, just to make sure she stays out of your _Slytherin_ hands, the poor male–looking girl. I feel so bad for her.

OH MY GOD! _This_ is the book Ginny grew up with? _The_–_Boy_–_Who_–_Lived and the Chamber of Doom?_ I'm laughing so hard right now, I'm actually _crying_. I can't stop and my sides hurt so badly. If I pass out it's entirely your fault. Okay, I think I'm better. Nope, here come the giggles. I've _got _to show this to my Dad when I'm done with this. _He_ never even _implied_ that he wouldn't make fun of you. –smile–

Maybe it's a good thing I didn't give you a response to that question you didn't ask, because if _this_ Harry showed up and asked me out I might just have to take him up on it. The two Harrys reminds me of your comment about the twenty kids. I'm not calling my children out by number, no matter _who_ their father's parents are. And you go from "Always [my] Harry" to just Harry and expect a response to that unasked question? Well, if I was even _thinking_ about giving you one before, I'm certainly not now.

To answer questions you _did_ ask though, no, I'm not still using it and I don't know _where_ this Hermione's been. She's probably been hiding from her mother to tell you the truth. As for being more relaxed and funny, maybe it's just because it's summer and I'm in my old room again that's gotten me so relaxed and the humor might be because this has been all done through letters where we have time to think about what we want to say before we write it.

Of course, it could just be _you _that brings it out in me. It _does _seem like a part of you is here with me when I'm writing to you, and I've never felt that way before, even when I was writing my Dad last year. Maybe it comes from not holding anything back and removing that filter that says, "No, you don't want to mention that," and "He'll take that the wrong way," or "You'll be mortified and he'll reject you if you say that."

I can only _hope _that this Hermione is going to be the one that goes to Hogwarts with you this year, because I'm _really _starting to like her, and that's not something I've ever said before. The Internet might be an amazing way of finding what I'm looking for but there's no way it would be able to find anything as special as you, which is something I didn't even know I was looking for, so it looks like you're stuck with me and the library for a while longer.

I think I'll just keep Imogen here since this is where she's most comfortable, not that _that's _saying very much, and I'll send Hedwig back when_ I _think she's ready. That'll keep us to one letter back and forth a day and you can have more time to spend with those red–headed friends of ours who so graciously invited you to stay.

Courteous regards, Hermione

.o0O0o. Arrives Wednesday Evening .o0O0o.

Hey Hermione,

Sorry for making you feel bad and being such a Slytherin. You saying "my Harry" makes me feel a lot better than when Ginny said it so here goes: Hermione Granger, will you go out with me?

Always Your Harry if you agree, Harry

.o0O0o.

Ron watched in horror as the Quaffle plummeted towards the ground _again_ with George close behind. It was the final match of the most involved two–on–two Quidditch series ever held at the Burrow and Harry chose _now_ to get all twitchy? _Everything_ was being taken into account here: how many goals, how many saves, how many times the Quaffle changed hands, and how long it took for one team to score a hundred points. This would determine once and for all who the best Chaser was, who was the best Keeper, and which two people played best with each other and in what positions. The only stat _not_ in consideration was _how often you look off in the wrong direction_ _and drop the ball_, and _that's_ the stat Harry seemed _determined_ to dominate.

George easily recovered from Harry's foul up, pulled out of the dive, and with a burst of speed came straight at him. Harry had been acting strange all week, suddenly running off whenever that strange owl showed up and being holed up in Bill's old room for hours on end. Usually he managed to come to his senses long enough for a good game of Quidditch, lunch, maybe _another_ game of Quidditch, some chess or exploding snap, dinner, and maybe a game of chess before disappearing again.

He pushed those thoughts aside; he was _not_ going to be distracted now. With Harry's playing in the tank every scrap of his Keeper skills were being called up just to keep them in the game and he was _not_ going to blow it now.

Left – right – left – right – George zigged and zagged as he closed on the goal until he finally began his throw. With a sudden burst of speed Ron shot to his right, snagging the Quaffle before it could cross the crossed branches that marked the goal. That was the fifth time he saved them after Harry's bungling and the game wasn't even over yet!

"Oi! Harry, get your head in the game!" he shouted as he scanned the clearing for his teammate. He checked down on the ground, then up in the air. Harry wasn't anywhere to be seen. Off to one side Fred and George already had their heads together comparing notes on the game.

"What happened?" Ron asked as he joined them.

"Game called on account of Harry," George explained, totaling up the figures.

"Take a look," Fred said, shaking his head and pointing to the receding form of Harry that was bounding back to the Burrow so quickly he could've been flying – if his trusty Nimbus hadn't been dropped and lying forgotten in the dirt.

"How can he live with himself, _honestly?"_ Ron asked, shaking the dirt out of the Nimbus's tail as they headed back home.

"It's an absolute disgrace treating a Nimbus like that," Fred said. "What should we do, draw and quarter him?"

"Boil him in oil?" George offered.

"I think the broom needs a new owner," Ron declared, "at least until its _current_ one learns to show it proper respect."

Fred and George made identical sounds of pain, their hands clutched to their hearts as if wounded.

"_We're_ not even that harsh, little brother," George scolded him.

"Maybe if it were _you,_ but not Harry," Fred explained.

Before they were even a quarter of the way home the distant Harry gave off a loud cheer, sending the white speck that was Hedwig flying back up to the open window of Bill's old room.

"Look at him," Ron said. "He's gone completely mental. It's like he's been crowned Emperor of the Moon or something."

They put the brooms back in their shed as George gave out the bad news.

"Turns out I'm incredibly mediocre," he said checking the final scores.

"Ah, don't let that get you down, Georgie. I could have told you that _years_ ago," Fred consoled his twin. "Everyone knows I'm the heart, soul, and life of us. It only makes sense I'd be the better player too," he smiled.

"You're the better Chaser," George corrected his twin. _"I'm_ the better Keeper. But _this one_," he gestured to Ron, "he came out of nowhere today to clobber my score. If I didn't know any better I'd swear those two planned it."

"What's that?" Ron asked, nosing his way over to check out the scores himself.

He was ahead. He might never make a passable Chaser, but in terms of Saves he was _way_ ahead. It was with a bouncing mood that he led them into the Burrow. Ginny sat morosely at the kitchen table reading the copy of _Quidditch Through the Ages_ he had left out while their mum tried to covertly check and make sure her daughter wasn't doing anything she shouldn't be while starting to get ready for dinner.

"Harry back up in his room again?" Fred asked as he slumped into a chair, tired from hours spent defending a goal that had never once been assaulted.

"Oh, yes," their mother replied. "Probably won't see him until supper. He's as quiet as a house–elf, isn't he? I could do with _ten more_ like him. Raising them would be a breeze," their mother beamed. Harry's quiet manner and voracious appetite had definitely gotten on her good side in the short time he'd been here. Ron doubted she'd hear a word against him.

"He spends a lot of time in that room," Ron said. "How often can he really write to Gringotts?"

"What makes you think it's a _bank_ that he's writing to?" George asked with a grin.

"Oh, George, surely not. He's awfully young for that," their mother waved the thought away.

"I dunno, mum," Fred came to his twin's defense. "There are a lot of girls up at Hogwarts that would like to catch a young Seeker's eye. One of them might've done it."

Ginny didn't look like she quite knew what to do with this information.

"And he _has_ been in that room _a lot_ since he got here," George pressed his point.

"Not any more than Percy and _he_ certainly doesn't have–," their mother stopped and seemed to review everything that had happened since she'd picked them up from the Hogwarts Express almost two months ago.

With a _clang_ the dishes were left to lie in the sink as the middle aged housewife with a mission made her way upstairs.

"Percy?" their mother called. "Percy, what have you been _doing_ up here all by yourself?"

Ron got a sinking feeling in his stomach, his joy from earlier completely deflated. He knew for a _fact_ that there was at least _one_ girl who wanted to catch Harry's eye, and probably _one_ girl he'd let himself be caught by if she so much as said a word. The fact that they were the same person didn't please him in the slightest.

Following his mother's example, he got up to find out what exactly was going on upstairs.

.o0O0o.

**AN:** Judging from the reviews, the people who get it, get it, and appreciate it for what it is. As Robst said, "In the end – the only person who needs to be happy with the story is you." Personally, I'm happy with this story and its slow pace and glad that some of you like it. I hope you all stick around and leave a review.

Thanks for reading.


	10. There, There

.o0O0o.

Harry lay on his bed in his recently acquired room staring up at the ceiling with a grin on his face so big it was starting to hurt a bit. He didn't think he'd be getting rid of it anytime soon, even if he _had_ wanted to. How could he have ever thought that today had gone so _torturously_ slow? It had _flown_ by really; trying and failing to keep his mind on studying, losing a couple games of chess, lunch he had barely even picked at, a game of Quidditch and _poof!_ Hedwig was back.

And really, how could he have doubted for a moment what was going to happen? Ever since Dobby had appeared in his bedroom his life had just gotten better and better and now he was soaring so high he was looking down on the moon. _'Had it really not even been a week yet?'_ Harry thought to himself.

The image of what the little elf's life had probably been like during this time had the grin begin to slide off his face. He'd have to send a letter to Lichfield and see how the hunt for Dobby was going. It was Thursday, and if he hadn't been so _distracted_ he would've realized that he hadn't heard a word from the old man since he had left Gringotts on _Saturday_.

Harry knew that Lichfield would sort it out. He didn't seem the type to let a little thing like not knowing anything about the people he was trying to find stand in his way of getting the job done. Still, giving the gnarled old wizard a poke in the side wouldn't hurt.

These thoughts were way too serious for Harry at the moment so he reread the letter that had given him the smile in the first place. It didn't take long, there was only one word: _YES! _

_That_ had his smile back in place.

A short, quick _knock!_ was all the warning he had before the door opened and a streak of red hair stormed in. Harry reflexively balled his hand around the tiny scrap of parchment as Ron came up short in mid–stampede when he saw that the desk was unoccupied.

"Harry, you in here?" his friend asked.

"Yeah," Harry answered, sitting up on the bed behind Ron and drawing his attention to him.

The voice of Mrs. Weasley chided from somewhere below them, "I _insist_ you open this door and tell me what's going on! I'll blast the door–!"

"Why, what's going on?" Harry asked as he shut the door to block out the noise.

"I should be asking _you_ that," his friend declared as if some great crime had been committed against him. "What _is_ going on?"

"Oh, the game!" Harry exclaimed, his brain finally catching up. "How'd we do?"

"Lost spectacularly. Thanks for noticing that we were _supposed_ to be playing," Ron said sarcastically. "What have you been _doing_ in here that could have you throw your brain out the window when it comes to _Quidditch?"_

"Well–," Harry said, moving to flatten his unruly mop of hair with his closed fist before quickly changing direction to covertly stuff the note between him and the mattress, hoping his friend took the movement as some sort of shrug. "I've just have a lot of stuff on my mind," he said evasively. "You know I can't tell you everything that's going on."

"So it's just a bunch of stuff with Gringotts then?" Ron said uncertainly. "And what's with all the studying? You're supposed to be on _my_ side against those bookish people."

"That's part of it," Harry evaded again. Since he _had_ vaguely mentioned the issues in his letters it wasn't _precisely_ a lie. It was just a part of what he was doing that was so small it about the size of an atom. If Ron thought it was bigger than that–

"And there's nothing _wrong_ with being one of those _bookish people_, Ron," he said defensively, hoping he could find a way to angle the conversation away from their other best friend. "There's a lot to learn."

"And we've got plenty of time," his friend pressed.

_"You_ have plenty of time," Harry said. "But for _me_ it's different. If _you_ want to know something you can just ask your mum or dad, or even your brothers, but for me it's just _me_."

"You could ask them too," Ron said stubbornly.

"Yeah, but I can't rely on them forever–," Harry tried to explain.

"Well, why not?" his friend cut in. "What's wrong with my family?"

"Nothing, Ron, they're great," Harry said honestly. "But they're not _mine_. I'm not going to have your mum and dad looking over my shoulder my whole life just in case I have a question. If I'm going to do something then I'm going to have to do it on my own."

"You've got me," Ron said.

_"Now_, sure," Harry explained. "What about in _ten years_ when you're off looking after Norbert with Charlie, or off in Egypt with Bill? We'll still be friends, but you could be off selling broomsticks in _Timbuctoo_ for all we know. Who am I going to ask then?"

The stubborn look on Ron's face faded as he thought about what Harry said.

"I hadn't thought about that," he admitted as he moved to sit down on the edge of the desk.

Butterflies formed in Harry's stomach and started fluttering around as he remembered that he had stashed all of Hermione's letters in the desk drawer directly below where Ron sat.

"Imagine what it'd be like if _you_ suddenly had to go and live in the muggle world," Harry suggested, continuing to talk to try and keep his attention _away_ from the letters.

"You mean like if I were a Squib?" Ron asked, perplexed.

"A _what_?"

"A Squib; a person with magical parents that can't do magic," Ron explained. "I told you about mum's cousin that's an accountant or something, didn't I?"

"Oh," Harry said, at a loss for words. "I just thought he liked math." He shook himself out of that reverie. "Okay, say you're a Squib and you have to go live in the muggle world. But when you get there you realize that you don't know _anything_. Not how they dress, what they eat, how they move about, not how the lights work–."

"Isn't that all done with ecklestricity?" Ron asked, looking somewhat scared.

"E–lec–_tris_–i–tee," Harry corrected him. "And _no_, there's a _bunch_ of different stuff they use. You could _use_ electricity to power a stove to help you cook, or it could use a fire in there that's powered by gas, which is not to be confused with gasoline – which muggles use in their car to make it go, which is _also_ called gas, or petrol. And then there's diesel for the _really_ big trucks–"

"That's just confusing," Ron said dumbfoundedly. "Are you making all that up?"

"Nope," Harry replied. "Every bit of that's true. And _that's_ just the beginning. I haven't even mentioned what school is like, what subjects there are, different jobs you can get once you graduate – how are you going to make money if you don't know what you're good at?"

"Blimey," Ron said, looking in horror at the future. "I'm gonna be _hopeless_. I don't know _any_ of that stuff."

"You're gonna be fine, Ron," Harry chuckled. "You're a _wizard_, remember? You're not going to live there."

"Wha–? Oh, right," Ron blushed. "How did you even learn all that?"

Harry shrugged. "I grew up there and you pick it up as you go. _You_ probably know more about the magical world then I'll learn in _seven years_ at Hogwarts, _and_ you've got your family to fall back on."

"I never thought of it like that," Ron admitted, shaking his head. "Maybe you _do_ have a lot to learn." Suddenly he scoffed at something. "Fred and George had this _ridiculous_ idea–"

"–Well, they _are_ Fred and George," Harry said.

"Yeah, but this one was _really_ far out there," he explained. "They thought you might be up here writing to some _girl_."

Harry could have groaned. After all his hard work at confusing Ron he was going to be exposed by Fred and George. Now that there was something they could pick on him about there was _no way_ they were going to let up on the idea. They had tried to have a go at him the first few days he was here by coming in and fainting on his bed whenever he looked at them, at least until he had turned it around and asked them if he should leave so they could have the room. Harry didn't know _how_ he was going to get out of this one.

_'If they're going to pick on you_,' the Harold part of him said. _'Then they might as well pick on you for something you _have_ done rather than something they _think_ you've done_.' It had been the first time that Harold part had said anything since it had told him to ask Hermione out a few days ago, and that had worked out well so far.

_'Yeah_,' the Harry part of him agreed. _'If you hide it _now_ they'll make fun of you for the _idea_ and then make fun of you _some more_ when the truth comes out_.' He would just have to grit his teeth and do it.

"Actually, Ron," he said embarrassed. "I kinda have."

"What? _Who?" _

"You _know_ who, Ron," Harry said, remembering what Hermione had told him in that first letter. "It's _Hermione_."

"Oh, her. That's nothing then," Ron said with a wave. "You've never looked at her twice."

"I asked her to go out with me," he countered.

"And why didn't you _tell_ me?" Ron asked, the stubborn look returning to his face.

"Why didn't _you_ tell me she liked me?" Harry shot back and it looked to him like it scored a direct hit to the gut.

"Oh," a somber–looking Ron said, the pink coloring coming back into his cheeks. "She told you about that."

"Well, _yeah_, it kind of came up," he said. "That's why I didn't tell you I was writing to her in the first place. I knew you didn't really like her that much."

"Who _said_ I didn't like her?" Ron demanded.

_"You_ did. You kept calling her _mental_ and said she was _nosy_."

"Well, she _was_ being nosy," Ron defended himself. "She thought I had you hidden under my _bed_ or something."

"Oh, right." Harry had forgotten about that part.

"Is that the _real_ reason you're doing all this?" Ron asked, gesturing to the books on Harry's desk. "I'm starting to think she's a bad influence on you."

"I happen to think she's a _good_ influence on me," Harry said defensively. "But I'd be studying either way, Ron. Everything I said before was true. Hermione and I _both_ have a lot to learn if we're going to make it in the wizarding world."

Ron still didn't look too happy. Harry didn't _get it_. Why was he being so resistant to the idea that he and Hermione might get along on some deeper level? It wasn't as if–

Suddenly everything clicked into place. He had never asked Hermione about the awkward conversation with Ron that she had mentioned in her first letter. With everything else going on there was simply so much to talk about that he had just forgotten about it. But now – It was a possibility that he hadn't even thought about before, not one he'd think even remotely possible in a _thousand years_.

"You don't, er – like Hermione, do you?" Harry asked.

"I just said I don't dislike her," Ron said.

"No, I mean, you don't _like her_ like her, do you?" he clarified.

Ron's ears suddenly became so red they threatened to burst into flame.

"Y– N– It's–," his best mate stammered. "Well, I don't know!" Ron looked like he deeply regretted ever coming through the door.

"How do you _not know_?" Harry asked before he could stop himself.

"It's jus–," Ron floundered, looking for something to say. _"I dunno_. I mean, she's a _girl_, and she's _there_–," he kind of petered out, as if realizing that he didn't have anything else to go on.

_'That's it?_' Harry marveled at the situation. _'The _hundreds_ of reasons to like Hermione boiled down to: She's a girl and she was _there_?'_ What about how she runs off the Library when she just _has to know_ something? Or the way she goes _'OH MY GOD!'_ in her letters? And that little_ –smile–_ she includes when she's being a little flirty and how it makes him want to see what it looks like in person? There was so much _more_ to Hermione than just _being there_.

"It's not like any other girl talks to us. And, I don't know," Ron said, finally grasping at straws. "She screams like mad when it comes to Quidditch."

Harry thought he knew _why_ Hermione hadn't brought this up either, this _was_ getting awkward.

"You didn't – you know – _tell her_ you liked her, did you?" he asked Ron.

If Harry had thought this was awkward before, the look on Ron's face made it ten times worse.

"Well what was I _supposed_ to do?" Ron asked. "I mean, there she was going on about her _friend_ and how much she _liked_ him. You'd been up in the hospital wing for _days_ and I was _right there_. What was I _supposed_ to think?"

And with that the lights turned on in Harry's head and the whole thing turned around.

"So _you_ thought that _Hermione_ was trying to ask _you_ out," Harry clarified.

"Well, _yeah_. Wouldn't you?" Ron asked. "I mean, growing up, we _all knew_ that muggles did things backwards, so why not this?"

"So _you_ said that you liked her because you thought that _she_ was saying that she liked you," Harry summed up.

"Exactly!" Ron agreed.

"And then she said that it wasn't about you at all," Harry burst his bubble by taking the next logical step.

A shadow passed across Ron's face.

"Yeah," Ron said sourly. "It was a _lousy_ thing to do."

"So you didn't tell _me_ because?" Harry prompted, trying to keep his irritation at his best mate under control.

"Because I wanted to get back at her!" Ron explained. "It was a dirty rotten trick; she _deserved_ to pay for what she did."

"She didn't _mean_ to trick you, Ron," Harry said, his insides warring between being angry on Hermione's behalf and actually seeing it from Ron's point of view. "She probably didn't even know that you'd take it that way."

"How could she _not know_?" Ron asked in an absurd mockery of his own question from earlier.

"Because she's a _muggleborn_," Harry said, finally seeing a way out and hoping the muggleborn thing could finally be a _good_ thing for once. "You said _yourself_ that muggles do everything backwards, how could she be expected to know what a _wizard_ would think about something like that?"

Harry waited with bated breath as his best mate seemed to give that thought his full attention and he swore on his potentially–Slytherin grandparents that if everything somehow worked out with his two best friends that he'd never say anything bad about Slytherins again. _'Except for Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle_,' he added to himself. _'And all those other idiots like them. And Snape; definitely Snape_.' The potions master had _earned_ his spot as pride of place on his list of detestable Slytherins.

"I didn't think of it like that," Ron said finally. "You two are just so good at _everything_ that it's hard to think of you as muggleborns. Or, I don't really know what to call _you_," Ron said scratching his head, "not a wizard–born, that's a Squib."

"Muggle–_raised_?" Harry offered.

"That works," his friend nodded. "You two could probably write a _book_ about all this stuff._ 'Harry Potter's Muggle–Raised Guide to All Things Muggle._' Nuts like my dad would buy out the whole printing."

"Don't say that to Hermione," Harry chuckled, "or she might actually do it."

"Yeah," Ron smiled. "That's one mad _girlfriend_ you got there, Harry."

Harry smiled. Even once her answer arrived he had never thought of her as _that_. The fact that it was a smiling Ron who dubbed her that seemed to make it official.

"Oh, and um–," a rather chagrined Ron said. "Sorry for not telling you. It really didn't have anything to do with you. Well, _that_ did, but not – you know."

"I know, Ron," Harry smiled, feeling a huge weight lift off his shoulders. Maybe things would turn out alright after all. "I'm sure Hermione will apologize when it's explained to her."

"Yeah," Ron scoffed. "And then _Snape_ will ask for your autograph."

A pair of quick knocks had his door open again and see a smiling Fred and George enter.

_'Oh great_,' Harry thought miserably. _'Why did it have to start now?_'

"What are you two grinning at?" Ron asked.

"It's _Percy_–," George said, smiling like Christmas had come early.

"–He's got himself a _girlfriend_." Fred said, reveling in the reveal.

"He can join the club then," Ron said. "Harry's got one too!"

Dinner that night was a lively affair. It wasn't a party, but it certainly _felt_ that way. With Percy's big secret out of the bag, most of the attention was focused on him, and of course this _mysterious_ Penelope. Aside from a few congratulations, and pats on the back from the twins, Harry was largely forgotten. He found it odd to be in anyone's shadow, especially _Percy's_, but it was a feeling he'd be glad to get used to. At least then it would mean that he was just being treated like a normal person.

Besides the occasional barbs from his brothers, it was left to Percy to do most of the talking; he had to be constantly prompted by his mother though or he'd stop. Mrs. Weasley wanted to know _everything_ about Ms. Penelope Clearwater: who she was, where she was from, how they met, what her parents did; the works. It was a point in her favor that she was a fellow Prefect, even if she _was_ a Ravenclaw.

"So when are you two seeing each other? Have anything planned?" Mrs. Weasley asked.

"Um–," Percy didn't seem to have an answer.

"What about _you_, Harry, and this girl of yours?" she inquired.

"Yeah, who is it anyway?" Fred asked.

"It's that Japanese bird in your year isn't it?" George asked.

"That one's _Chinese_ and a year up," Fred corrected him. "Name's Ching, I think. Jo Ching?"

"Hey," his brother defended, "I don't _care_ who she is; all I know is that she's been eyeing him since he got made Seeker last year."

Harry sat there getting more embarrassed by the moment. He didn't know what he was expecting once the spotlight finally hit him, but _this_ certainly wasn't it. How many girls _had_ he been oblivious to last year?

"Are you two _mental_?" Ron asked. "It's _Hermione_."

Ginny seemed to sink into herself.

"You know," George said to his twin. "We should've bet on that. I never thought Harry'd have the guts to approach her."

Fred nodded. "She's _way_ too scary for me, and we grew up with mum."

His mother shot him a look that promised harsh treatment should he ever find a girl he liked.

"_She_ probably approached _him_," Ron said wisely. "Muggles do things backwards."

"Yeah? How do muggles do it?" Fred asked Harry.

"George! That's not appropriate," Mrs. Weasley chided.

"I only asked–," the boy tried to defend himself.

"I know what you _asked_, and I know what you _meant_."

"Then why'd you yell at _me_ for?" the other twin asked affronted. "Fred said it. If you want to get onto me, do it for what _I_ say." Then to Harry Fred shot a quick, "So how _do_ muggles do it anyway?"

"Both of you, up to your room, _now!_" Mrs. Weasley commanded in a tone that left even her husband looking like he'd be glad to leave too.

Fred and George wisely retreated to the soothing explosions that always seemed to come from their lair as Mrs. Weasley tried to calm herself.

"Since you mention it," Harry said while fighting a blush once the twins were out of earshot. "Hermione did mention wanting to meet up at Diagon Alley the Wednesday after we get our letters."

Mrs. Weasley looked to her husband.

"It should be this weekend," Mr. Weasley said looking glad he could be helpful. "Dumbledore should be back by then."

"Oh, _wonderful_," Mrs. Weasley beamed. "That'll give you two a chance to walk about with Percy and this Penelope," she said to Harry. "You look after him, Percy, I'll keep the others occupied so they don't embarrass you two."

Now it was Percy's turn to look embarrassed though he tried to cover it by eating. Ginny seemed to sink even lower until she threatened to sink under the table completely. Ron seemed to be the only one take this all as a matter of course.

"Dumbledore's been gone?" Harry asked, trying to appear only mildly curious about what the old man's been up to.

"A _very_ busy man for someone his age," Mrs. Weasley said disapprovingly. "I would've thought he'd settle down to a nice quiet life when Arthur and I graduated. Goodness knows he deserves it," she explained. "Then, of course, came all that You–Know–Who business, and a string of incompetent Ministers," she shook her head. "The poor man hasn't had a break in _decades_. Such a shame."

"He's been in Geneva for most of the week chairing the latest meeting of the International Confederation of Wizards," Mr. Weasley said in an aside to Harry.

"Well, it was a great meal, as always, Mrs. Weasley," Harry said as he excused himself from the table. In no time at all he was back in his room, back on his bed, and back to staring up at the ceiling trying to figure out what he was going to do.

Harry felt the stirrings of a kind of nervousness that he'd never felt before, and it had nothing to do with the chance to see Hermione just days from now. Dumbledore was coming back. It had been a kind of happy thought in the back of his mind for the last several days that with whatever was going on at Gringotts and all their plans that Dumbledore either didn't seem to notice or simply didn't care and _that_ was why he hadn't heard anything from them.

With the headmaster out of the country, the lack of any money from his account and nothing from Gropegold would probably be impossible to ignore. Dumbledore would come for him, of that he had no doubt. His letter to Lichfield suddenly seemed all the more important. He'd definitely need as much protection as Gringotts could offer. An entire goblin _army_ guarding the Burrow would only slightly lessen the anxiety he was starting to feel.

With the way Gringotts had been so far though Harry could already hear Barchoke's voice saying no._ 'We're a _bank_, not Goblin Armies Я Us._' That idea was going to go nowhere, even if he asked. That only left one thing he could do: run and hide.

_'Where?_' that Harold part of him asked. _'In a cupboard under the stairs? If _Hagrid_ could find you last year then _Dumbledore_ could find you now. You can't run._'

Harry knew he was starting to panic, but when you're facing down Dumbledore, who wouldn't? Even Lord Voldemort was afraid of Dumbledore. He doubted the Weasleys would be much of a shield if it came down to it, and really, how much protection could a rental agreement with people he hardly even knew, that wasn't even signed, and he didn't even have yet provide against a wizard that had beaten one Dark Lord so badly that the next one to come along wouldn't even go up against him?

He closed his eyes and tried to remember the plan Barchoke had sketched out on their way to see Hammerhand. Lichfield would draw up a rental agreement with the Weasleys and get it to him in plenty of time so that he could convince them it was for real. The fact that it wasn't here yet was troubling, but maybe he was just being thorough. All Harry had really needed to do was find something that the Weasleys wanted that he could offer in return, and that was supposed to have been an easy thing to do.

While Ron had always had his family come across as _poor_ in his whinging, what Harry hadn't expected was for them to be so _happy_ being poor. Ron's grousing about it seemed the extent of their hardship, so he really didn't think they'd _even consider_ taking money for something they were already letting him have for free.

But once he got that agreement signed and sealed, the Ministry would _have to_ recognize it. They had _always_ recognized contracts sealed with blood and magic, it was one of the bedrocks of their society, or so Barchoke had said. If Dumbledore wanted to stop it because he was his "guardian" and Harry was underage, then the whole _abandonment_ thing would get dragged into court because of it. If Dumbledore tried to remove him by force, then Lichfield would get the Ministry involved and the whole abandonment thing would get dragged into court because of it.

If Dumbledore showed up before the agreement was signed, _then_ he'd probably be toast. His kind old grandfather routine would probably have him Dumbledore his way through the Weasleys and get them to give him to him, or at least send him home. After that, who knew _what_ would happen to him, or even if he'd ever be _seen_ again?

Harry heard a slight rustling of wings and felt a weight settle on his chest. He opened his eyes to see Hedwig staring down at him. It had been the longest he'd been in the room without writing a letter, reading a letter, sending a letter, sleeping or studying so she was probably wondering what he could _possibly_ be doing.

He sent her off back to her usual perching place on top of the wardrobe and got up. That letter wasn't going to write itself. As he sent Hedwig off into the night he realized that he could've sent off another letter to Hermione; their conversation had just sort of _stopped_ once there was _the question_ to ask. As he saw Hedwig fade away Harry thought that it would probably be some time before he'd be able to concentrate on anything as pleasant as Hermione, at least until he could be sure that he'd be safe at the Burrow for a while longer.

.o0O0o.

The waxing gibbous hung happily in the sky as the man in the moon smiled down upon the kindly old grandfather of the wizarding world and Albus Dumbledore smiled merrily back at him. It had been such a joyous week doing good works that not even his still–missing statements could get him down when he was surrounded by the warm glow of hearth and home that was the Three Broomsticks on a Friday evening. They were probably up at Hogwarts anyway so there was nothing to worry about.

The jaunt up from the village had been a spritely one; the grass was springy, the breeze cool and refreshing, and the stars twinkled down in their multitudes. He even paused a moment to wave to the Giant Squid that made its home in their highland loch. How the creature could possibly survive in such an environment, much less live so long, was still a complete mystery, even after a hundred years. But, Albus conceded, such was life.

Hagrid had a roaring fire going in front of his hut, bathing the grounds in its warm glow. More light spilled forth from the grand doors of the school which were open wide to welcome its beloved headmaster back home. The candles twinkled like the stars above in the great hall, torches now dim after the evening meal, and Albus thought he saw the slim slinking shadow of Severus Snape slip silently down to his dreary dungeon den. The teachers, the organs and tissues of the Hogwarts body, were returning at last and soon the school would be revived and ready to go for another year.

_'So much Good_,' Albus thought._ 'So much Good yet to be done_.'

This last week had seen a great deal of work for the Greater Good done, it was true. Almost single–handedly he had relegated the magical plague that was gnawing its way through central Africa to a conference for developing magical nations, giving that area a second chance to pull together in a pinch and form lasting bonds of friendship through shared adversity and loss.

Halting the relief efforts for the victims of a conflict with a band of Giants in eastern Turkey that had seen the deaths of almost 80 muggles earlier this year was also absolutely essential. Though he sympathized with their loss, the sad proposal had been connected to the authorization for the wizarding community there to root out their Giant population once and for all. But Giants deserved a second chance too after all. Hagrid himself had proven to him that all their burly brethren truly needed were nice warm hugs and a cup of cocoa and all would be well.

Handling the impassioned plea by the Bulgarian Minister for I.C.W. Peacekeepers to be sent into his country to stop the ongoing conflict there was his pride and joy though. The country finally had a symbol they could rally around in the form of a young Quidditch sensation named Viktor Krum. Albus wanted to give the magical peoples of his country a second chance to see the error of their ways on their own and come back into fellowship with each other and so shuffled the matter off to a relatively unimportant subcommittee for Southeastern European International Magical Cooperation for further study and review.

In the magnificent week he'd been in Geneva, absolutely _nothing_ had been accomplished. The Greater Good would provide after all. Anything else would be to show doubt and sow division, grave offenses that made the Good feel sad.

Albus almost felt like dancing as he made his way to Professor McGonagall's office. Indeed he would have, but sadly that particular skill was one he lacked any talent in. When the jolly old man arrived at the Deputy Headmistress's office he found the door open and a kindly light shining forth.

He peeked in to see stacks of envelopes all around her desk as she shifted one envelope after another from pile to pile after a light tap of her wand. The warm glow in his chest grew with the knowledge that he hadn't missed the Mailing. Aside from the Welcoming Feast, it was his favorite time of the year.

"Ah, Professor McGonagall, everything going well I see," he said to his hard–on–the–outside–yet–creamy–in–the–center Head of Gryffindor House. Albus made the mental note to refresh his candy stores for the upcoming year sometime soon. It wouldn't do to run low on Lemon Drops, someone might actually want one this year.

"I trust everything worked out for the best in my absence?" he asked.

"Sadly no," she said wiping a tear from her eye.

"There, there, Minerva," Albus said coming around to put a comforting arm around his Deputy. "Whatever could be the matter?"

"It's the _children_, Albus. The Hopefuls," Minerva sniffed into a tartan handkerchief. "I fear Hogwarts must break its word to them. I didn't know whether to write them or visit them in person to explain but – just the thought on those poor children's faces when they learn that they won't be able to attend–."

The soft old Scot blew her nose in almost comedic fashion, and new tears made her eyes reflect the candlelight that lit the room, much like her feline animagus form did when on the prowl.

"Fear not," Albus said kindly. "I'll see what I can do."

_'Surely the money from Gringotts would have arrived by now_,' Albus thought. Perhaps it was something as simple as forgetting to sign one of the transfer orders. _'Even _I_ can make mistakes after all_.' He almost chuckled at the thought but knew it would do nothing to cheer his longtime work acquaintance. He would have to remember to have a good chuckle later.

If such an unlikely event _were_ to happen though it'd just be a matter of moments before the funds started flowing again. _'As fast as a Fawkesian flash_,' he thought.

"I do hope you have better luck than I did," McGonagall said. "I did what I could to fill your shoes when you were gone but could only scrounge up enough in donations to cover _one year_ of tuition for _one_ student, and that's without providing _any_ means of support for the supplies themselves."

"I don't suppose any mail came for me while I was gone?" he asked with a knowing smile.

"Just the normal Ministry owls," she said as she returned to her work.

A small tendril of worry started to burrow into his heart, leaching away the life and warmth within as his face showed concern for the first time. Could something be wrong at Gringotts? Not even the havoc caused by Tom's reign of terror had ever caused this kind of disruption in them issuing their monthly account statements. Perhaps he would have to pay them a visit, just to make sure.

With tap after tap of McGonagall's wand bright green ink appeared on envelope after envelope showing the name and current location of each recipient. Albus picked up one of the completed stacks and started leafing through them.

"Unless they decide to spend the night somewhere they _weren't_ fifteen minutes ago those will still be right," she said as if wondering why he was still there.

"Of that I have no doubt," he said jovially. "Merely looking so I can recall their smiling faces."

"Their faces won't be smiling when Halloween rolls around and the Feast has to be cut," the Scotswoman said, back in her normally clipped tone. "And the teachers won't be smiling when salaries are slashed. _Gilderoy Lockhart_ may try to _quit_ if that happens, contract or no," she finished derisively.

His deputy never saw the Greater Good at work. How could it _not_ be in everyone's interest to expose the man for the fraud he is? And what better way to do that then to place him in a position of power and authority over children eager to learn? That those children must first buy copies of every one of his books as reading material and sacrifice a year of their Defense education to give the incompetent man this chance to hang himself was simply the price that must be paid. Albus could not abide frauds.

At last Albus saw the name he sought amidst the group of new Second Years and smiled as he saw the address. This _had to be_ the Greater Good at work. Where there was a problem, the Greater Good always provided. If something _was_ wrong at Gringotts, then Harry was the answer. How lucky it was that he was at the home of the Weasleys.

"You have the letters to the Hopefuls handy?" the kind old man asked, placing the Second Year Mailings back on the desk.

"Yes, they're right here," McGonagall said, handing him three thin envelopes. "I think I should visit them myself instead. It's the right thing to do," she said sadly.

"Give me a couple of days to see to them," he said softly as he pocketed the envelopes. "I'm sure something can be done. A few days may see a world of difference."

"Of course," Minerva said. "If you think that's best."

The kindly old grandfather of the wizarding world bid her goodnight and made his way up to his room, making sure to stop off by the Owlery along the way.

.o0O0o.

The fluttering sound of _hundreds_ of wings filled the night sky as the massive stream of owls left Hogwarts for parts unknown. Tomorrow people the width and breadth of the country would wake up to their much anticipated Mailings. It would be like Christmas to them.

Up in his tower, Albus smiled. He had always loved the sight of all those owls winging their way off to all points beyond but it had been years since he had directly contributed to the yearly event. He had so hated to change things last year, but it was necessary. Today though it was different. Giving the owl on his arm one last stroke on the head he sent it off into the night with a thin letter of its own to deliver.

Where there was a need, the Greater Good provided, and everything worked itself out the way it was _meant_ to be.

.o0O0o.

**AN:** When I started this, I wanted to do a Dumbledore that had never been seen before. Taking his hands-off, everyone gets a second chance, and Greater Good ideologies to their furthest extremes the scene of his return to Hogwarts formed in my mind, with all the glowing depictions of how much Good he had done at the I.C.W. I must admit, the first thing out of my mouth when that happened was, "Holy crap, he _is_ a monster."

Thanks for reading.


	11. Surprise

**AN:** I like having a lot of development and world-building so I can really shake things up in a single chapter. _A lot_ of stuff gets revealed so sit back and grab the popcorn.

.o0O0o.

The kindly old grandfather of the wizarding world sent the shopkeepers of Diagon Alley _fleeing_ from their early breakfasts at Leaky Cauldron in something approaching a panic. It had long been Albus's custom to watch the Alley suddenly _spring_ to life like the desert after a rare rain so they all knew what his arrival meant. _This_ was why the Mailings had always been sent out at the same time, and never announced. The _surprise_ was the best part.

Albus had to admit that he did _love_ this reaction though; it made him feel so important. To think that just his appearance so early in the morning so late in the summer could cause such a stir was almost enough to give one a big head. _'As if that would ever happen to someone like _me,' the kindly and ever so humble Dumbledore thought to himself.

"I'm sorry, Tom," he said as he smiled to the hunch-backed, gap-toothed barman. "I seem to have cost you all of your patrons."

"That's alrigh'," Tom replied merrily and started to clear the plates with a wave of his wand. "They already paid."

After considering it for a moment, the merry old man thought that as long as he was here it wouldn't hurt to have one of his few little indulgences.

"I don't suppose you happen to have Sticky Buns this morning, do you?" Albus asked.

"Only when I don't change me underwear," the barman quickly replied with his classic 'I got you' look on his face.

Albus had a good chuckle; the earthy barman's humor would never change.

"I'll bake some up fresh like," Tom said. "I take it today's the big day?"

"Oh yes. Today is a _very_ big day," Albus said with more meaning than one in mind. He so loved wrapping everything up in one outing.

.o0O0o.

Lichfield stumbled as he was pushed out of the emerald flames. Catching himself on the rough wooden seats of the Leaky Cauldron, he felt a twinge in his hand as a splinter dug into his skin, adding extra flavor to his early morning grumble. That happened _every time_ Lester tried to take a short cut and hop out of one of the Gringotts fires instead of his stated route but he couldn't help but check every once in a while.

As he drew his wand to extract the splinter he just _knew_ that today was going to be a lousy day. Why the Ministry saw fit to restrict passage to and from Gringotts like they did, even for employees, he'd never know. It's not like they'd have an entire goblin army belch itself out of a fireplace, no matter _how_ famous the kid who asked for one was.

How Legal could've _lost_ that rental agreement after it took so long to write up, given the boy's particularly _tricky_ legal standing, was enough to get his dander up. If it wasn't for the fact that Barchoke had wanted heads on pikes, leaving him to run interference since _beheadings_ wouldn't be doing Harry any favors, he would have felt free to vent his spleen on the issue. The new one should be done sometime today and he'd finally be able to put that kid's mind to rest. Merlin knew the kid needed a chance to be a kid when he could have it. What he had learned of that kid's life was repellant.

The smell of Sticky Buns hung thick in the air causing his stomach to growl. His morning toast hadn't been enough after all. Maybe he'd call for Mipsy so she could make him a sandwich when he got to work. The elf would be so thrilled she'd probably be smiling and bouncing off the walls all day. He mentally corrected his schedule so he could stay late at work, leaving Mipsy free to go _berserk_ in an overload of euphoric cleaning before he got back.

Lichfield wouldn't put it past her to fix his neighbor's large metal muggle contraption that he had broken last night when he had gotten home. If that boy didn't learn to stop blocking his stairway with that automocar there was going to be hell to pay.

"Ah, thank you, Tom. They smell _wonderful_."

The sound of a certain old man's voice drew the Litigator's eyes to him.

"I think I'll just take these at the little sitting area outside Florean's shop," the vicious old fraud said with a condescending smile. "Do you want me to send the plate back to you?"

Lester didn't stick around to hear any more of the old man's prattling, instead striding purposely towards the Alley proper._ 'Of course it just _had to_ come down to an old man race_,' Lichfield thought to himself as he stole the better start and opened up a lead, leaving a string of muttered curses behind him like he was an automocar himself.

As he hit the alleyway he paused only a moment to shake his head at the brilliant green sign that now decorated the front of the shoemaker's shop. _'Come See Harry Potter's Shoes!'_ it proclaimed. _That_ was sure to cause as much of a stir as that new broomstick at Quality Quidditch Supplies.

Muttering about the anti-Apparition field that enshrined the Alley, Lichfield put one foot in front of the other as he made his way forward, each step coming faster than the one before. Before he was even two shops along Lichfield was _running_. No old man was going to out _old man_ him because he was a _grumpy_ old man, damn it, and he needed all hands on deck. He was going to need Mipsy after all.

.o0O0o.

Harry tossed and turned as the sun just started to peek above the horizon before he got up to pace again. The last day or so had not been so pleasant for him. It had basically been waiting for the hammer to fall and filling the time however he could.

He had quickly found that he couldn't keep his mind on studying without subjecting what he was looking at to the _'would this be any good against Dumbledore'_ test, which nothing seemed to be able to pass. Quidditch and chess had been victims of that too, though he made sure that his broom never left the side of his open bedroom window, just in case he had to make a mad dash for freedom.

Even writing to Hermione had been short-changed. When she wrote to inquire why she hadn't heard anything from him that day and ask if anything was wrong he had sent back a response that probably did more harm than good. Now that he thought about it, how exactly _was_ she supposed to handle a letter that said, _'Whatever's going to happen will happen soon. I may be able to tell you everything this weekend. I hope I can see you again'_ and _not_ be worried? Though Hermione had _said_ she understood she did close with: _'And don't you think for one minute that I'm not going mad with worry over here and won't demand _every minute detail_ when you're able to explain.'_

After his sudden departure from supper the night before, a breakfast he had hardly picked at, and an hour spent staring off into the distance rather than watching Fred and George put Ron through some Keeper drills, Mrs. Weasley had finally stopped by to make sure everything was alright. That had almost had him spilling the beans about everything. The only reason he _didn't_ was because that would've been a really sorry way to repay their hospitality that he had already felt bad for imposing upon.

The only person who looked gloomier than _he_ did was Ginny. Harry didn't really know what was going on with the girl and he had given up even _trying_ to care. While he could sympathize with not having any friends, since both he and Hermione had gone through something similar, _this_ was something else and whatever it _was_ it was starting to creep him out a bit.

He _hoped_ that once school started both of them could simply disappear into their own little groups and not have to deal with each other until Christmas at least. Maybe by then she'll have made friends of her own and snapped out of it.

When he thought back on his week at the Burrow, he didn't particularly like what he saw. While he _loved_ spending time getting to know Hermione, he had spent way too much time away from the family who had welcomed him in, and really hadn't done _anything_ to show that he appreciated it. Helping to de-gnome the garden didn't really count in his mind since the little potato-headed creatures seemed to love it so much.

If this _was_ going to be his last day at the Burrow, Harry didn't want to be remembered as this sullen little kid that had shown up unannounced, imposed on them from the first minute he was there, and didn't show any gratitude for being invited in the first place. He should do something for them, Harry decided. Having been unable to sleep at all last night may have had him see the sun rise, but it also had him up before anyone else, even Mrs. Weasley.

Harry smiled. He knew _exactly_ what he was going to do.

.o0O0o.

Albus looked curiously at the handle that refused to move; the large bronze door would not budge, even trying his keys didn't work. He wondered what could possibly be going on, this was most inhospitable, even for goblins.

"Is there something I can do for you, sir?" came a goblin voice from behind him.

The kindly old grandfather of the wizarding world turned to see a courteous goblin in a finely cut suit. Though it was somewhat odd to see any goblin aside from the occasional guard with a shaven head, the wizard in swirling purple robes with silver moons cast the eccentricity aside, goblins were an odd people.

"I seem to have found my way barred," Albus said sadly. "Perhaps you could help me through? I have business to attend to."

"Of course, there are additional security concerns to take care of first, however," the goblin said, gesturing to a nearby desk. "I take it that you haven't been here since the first of the month?"

"I've been away," Albus said nebulously as he followed the goblin and took the proffered seat near the desk. "I trust this will not take too much time? I have other business to be about."

"No, no," the goblin said pulling out a set of writing implements. "It should take no time at all. We just need to do a simple account and identity verification."

"Verification?" Albus asked curiously; surely everyone knew who he was. "Is all that really necessary?" he asked with a twinkle in his eye.

"Unfortunately, yes," the goblin explained. "There was a regrettable _incident_ that left one of our most prestigious Financial Managers permanently unable to return to work and his accounts have had to be reassigned accordingly. These new measures are here for your protection and ensure account holder security. It would not do to for someone to access an account unlawfully during this rather _sensitive_ time."

"Ah," Albus said jovially, "of course, of course. I can respect your commitment to your legal obligations, mister-?"

"Barchoke," the goblin smiled.

"-Mister Barchoke," Albus continued, "having written quite a few of our bylaws myself."

"It's really quite simple, Mr. Dumbledore," Mr. Barchoke said as he pointed to the quills. "This is a Blood Quill and this one's a Truth Quill. All we require is a quick scratch from one, a statement outlining _where_ your authority to access the account in question comes from with the other, and your magical signature added at the end."

The kindly old man tried to hide his distaste at having to surrender his blood. He had never liked trafficking in blood, most unclean, if not bordering on Dark, no matter what anyone said. Indeed, many years ago he had had to outline the _acceptable_ uses of dragon's blood, lest the child-like masses be led astray by the power such a substance contained.

All that accomplished for his two accounts, Albus moved to stand.

"Just a moment, Mr. Dumbledore," Mr. Barchoke said, reviewing the vellum slips in front of him. "I'll need the Keys for the accounts for our verification process as well. And you have the Ministerial document that backs up this claim?" the goblin asked pointing to one part in particular.

"Ah, yes. I have them just here," Albus said as he reached into his robes.

The goblin seemed to tense for a moment and out of the corner of his eye he saw a set of scarlet and gold Gringotts guards begin to move.

.o0O0o.

Molly Weasley waited impatiently while her daughter got ready. She had seen her daughter change dramatically in the last week in ways she _certainly_ didn't approve of. Ginny had gone from starry-eyed wonder just shy of outright devotion to just the _idea_ of Harry Potter to distressed antipathy to the very _real_ young man who had arrived before taking a detour through pining for what she had "lost" before "catching a case of the sullens" (as her own mother had called it) when it came out that the _real_ Harry had already found himself a girlfriend.

It was _well_ beyond time for them to sit down and hammer this out once and for all. Though she loved the home she and Arthur had made at the Burrow over the last twenty five years with all her heart there remained one real downside to it – now that the children were older there was always someone else around lingering about to the point where outside of the school year it was almost impossible to have time alone to have a private conversation without being overheard. This need for privacy was what had Molly dragging her young daughter out of bed before the sun was fully above the horizon.

"Come along," she chided as her daughter emerged with her bathrobe wrapped around her sleeping clothes. Where once the girl had worn it because it made her comfortable, it seemed like she wore it now out of some sense of mourning.

She led her downstairs to be further from the sleeping others and tried to come up with what to say. Only once had she ever seen such _absolute foolishness_ in a girl before and there was _no way_ that she was going to let her own daughter go down a road that would see her have to withdraw from Hogwarts before she had even taken her O.W.L.s because she had been found to be in the family way like _that_ one had.

The girl had disappeared almost entirely after that, and the boy joined her soon afterwards. She saw them occasionally in Diagon Alley but never acknowledged ever knowing her. She was not going to let that happen to her daughter. Red hair was the closest _any_ Weasley would ever come to being a Scarlet Woman. This was going to be taken care of one way or another.

.o0O0o.

It had taken Harry some time to figure out how to turn on a magical stove and even longer to find where Mrs. Weasley kept the food. In the end he had to resort to poking things with his wand. He didn't think that counted as magic though, or at least not something Mrs. Weasley would get mad at him for, considering that he was doing this for her.

He was already well into cooking breakfast when he heard it, a soft_ pop!_ behind him and turned to see what it was.

"Mister Hairy Pots-sir?" a curious little elf with big brown eyes asked. It was carrying a large bundle of papers and Harry thought it was female.

"Er – Hello," Harry greeted the elf, cautiously wondering if _this_ visit by an elf would be just as _interesting_ as the last one was.

"Mister Lichy says that yous be needing this," the little elf said, offering the bundle of papers to him.

_'The rental agreement!'_ the Harry part of him cried and threatened to make him break out in a celebratory jig. He tried to keep his eager anticipation under wraps but couldn't help but to give a relieved smile.

"Thank you, um–"

"I be Mipsy, sir," the elf answered his unasked question.

"Well thank you very much, Mipsy," Harry smiled. "And thank Lichfield for me too, will you?"

Mipsy beamed and gave him a cute little curtsey, as if the repurposed striped pillowcase she was wearing were some sort of dress.

"Oh!" she cried, her big eyes bulging. "Mister Lichy say yous be needing this," she said as she reached down the neck hole into her makeshift dress and pulled out a scrap of parchment to hand to him.

"Bye, Mister Hairy Pots-sir!" she said with a wave before she disappeared with a_ pop!_

_'A little strange_,' Harry thought to himself. _'But _nobody_ beats Dobby_.'

Harry looked at the scrap of parchment and a lead weight settled in his stomach. All it said was_ 'NOW!'_ He felt cold as he realized what that could only mean one thing: Dumbledore was on the move and he'd be here _soon_.

Lichfield was certainly cutting it very thin. Harry could only hope that he could talk his way into getting the Weasleys to sign before the headmaster got here and that Lichfield was as good at delaying _people_ as he was at delaying deliveries.

The bacon started to sizzle on the stove as he heard someone on the stairs. Harry stashed the rental agreement into a nearby drawer full of odds and ends until the time was right.

"Ginny, I just don't know what's going on inside that head of yours," Mrs. Weasley said. "First you're ready to follow him into _matrimony_, and then you say you don't care, and _now_ you sulk around all day. Do you suddenly _want_ him again or do you just don't want _anyone else_ to have him just in case you change your mind later?" There was a slight pause before she continued, "Do you smell bacon?"

"Good morning, Mrs. Weasley," he called from the kitchen. Short quick steps sounded on the stairs as Mrs. Weasley looked curiously into the room.

"Harry? What on _earth_ are you doing?" she asked as if puzzled why any man would be in a kitchen, much less hers. "If you were hungry I could have made you something."

"Oh, no, Mrs. Weasley, this is for you," Harry said as he fixed her a plate. "You've made me feel so much at home this last week that I wanted to show my appreciation."

He set the set the simple meal of eggs, toast, and bacon down on the kitchen table along with a glass of milk before pulling the seat out for her. She looked at him with her mouth partially open, as if she had never seen such a mind-boggling thing in her entire life.

"Mrs. Weasley?" he said when she didn't move.

"Oh, um – Thank you," the kind woman said as she uncertainly took her seat. "You have to be the most curiously kind boy I've ever met. Hermione's lucky to have you."

He ran his hand through his hair embarrassedly.

"Mmm!" Mrs. Weasley said in non-syllabic praise as she seemed to relish the rare moment of private pampering. "Harry, if I could I'd keep you."

This was his moment.

"Actually, Mrs. Weasley-," he began.

"Oh, please, Harry," she said as she dug in to the toast. "After a meal like this you can call me Molly."

"Er – right, er – Molly," Harry tried to continue, edging his way back to the drawer. "About what you said-"

With the worst of all possible timing a strange owl thought that _that_ particular moment was the perfect time to land on the windowsill and tap for entrance.

"Oh, that'll be your Hogwarts letters," Molly said as she left the table to open the window. "Boys! Ginny! Wake up and come get your letters!" she cried upstairs before carrying her plate to the kitchen to snack on as she began puttering around to make breakfast for the gang of Weasley children that would soon groggily make their way downstairs.

_'The perfect moment come and gone_,' Harry thought as Ginny tried to slink into the dining room unnoticed. How was he supposed to bring it up in front of everyone _now_ without seeming rude or ungrateful for what they'd already done? He began to feel the beginnings of a nervous flutter jumbling around in his stomach.

"Will you look at this?" the twin he thought was Fred said as the quartet of brothers entered. "Either we've gotten slower-"

"-Or Mum's gotten so fast she can feed herself while cooking for everyone else," the other twin finished for him.

"Nonsense, dears," Molly said as she slapped Ron's hand away from her eggs. "Harry made this for me."

The boys looked to him in disbelief.

"No matter what you do-," George said seriously.

"-We're never gonna call you _'Dad.'_" Fred finished for him.

Harry couldn't help but chuckle, which had a pleasantly soothing effect on his nerves.

There came another _pop!_ from outside before Mr. Weasley's voice cried out as he entered.

"Morning, Weasleys!" he said and the assembled Weasley clan answered in kind as Percy started to hand out the Hogwarts letters as everyone found their seats.

"Looks like they sent us Harry's as well," Percy said, passing Harry his specially addressed envelope as the owl took off again. He had never noticed how the green ink looked so much like one of Snape's poisons.

"Dumbledore must know you're here, Harry," Mr. Weasley said cheerfully. "Doesn't miss a trick, that man."

_'Why did he have to say that?'_ Harry mentally moaned as his nervousness jumped up by several notches. He decided to look on with Ron as he read his letter, just in case his letter had been enchanted to attack him or something.

Ron immediately flipped over to the Second Year reading list; probably to see how much trouble he'd be in for that year. There was _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2_ by Miranda Goshawk, which Hermione had already been studying away on for the past month, and then _seven books_ by Gilderoy Lockhart.

This had to have been the same Lockhart that Cadogan and Lichfield had spoken so poorly of, though he didn't voice any of those concerns to Mrs. W-_Molly_ yesterday when she had been gushing about his advice from the pest control book she had. He had tried to look through that himself later that day but it basically seemed to be a glowing review of how good _he_ was at dealing with everything and a bunch of nonsensical words he tried to pass off as spells, none of which had worked for him. With _seven books_ it was sort of lucky that the man had only used the Blood Quill to sign the _contract_ and not write the whole book or he wouldn't have any blood left.

Fred, who had finished his own list, peered over at Ron's.

"You've been told to get all of Lockhart's books too!" he said. "The new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher must be a fan – bet it's a witch." He then caught his mother's eye and busied himself with his letter again.

"That lot won't come cheap," George said with a quick look to his parents. "Lockhart's books are really expensive."

"Well, we'll manage," Molly said though she looked worried.

Perhaps _this_ was something he could offer in exchange for them signing the agreement? Buying everyone a load of expensive books seemed a reasonable trade to him.

"I expect we'll be able to pick up a lot of Ginny's things secondhand," Molly continued.

It was only then that anyone noticed something wrong; Ginny was trying to covertly look around as if she suspected one of her brothers of hiding something from her. She didn't have an envelope.

As Harry was about to voice his concern another owl swooped in to land on the table. It carried a single letter; Ginny looked relieved. George got to it first and looked concerned; he had noticed the absence of her letter too.

"Mum," he said quietly as he passed it over. "It's for you and Dad."

There a moment of silence as the husband and wife read the short letter. As the only outsider there Harry got the sense that he was intruding on someone's funeral.

"It's from McGonagall," Molly said. "The money for the Hopefuls program hasn't come through. They say they can't give out any scholarships at all this year. Arthur?" At a loss she looked to her husband. He seemed lost as well.

With a sob, little Ginny ran from the table and up to her room.

"George, will you-?" his mother asked. The boy was already moving towards the stairs before she had even finished the question.

Harry felt horrible. The Hogwarts Hopefuls hadn't been something to help _graduating_ students find jobs, like Barchoke had thought, it was to help _kids_ who could only _hope_ to go to Hogwarts in the first place. That day at Gringotts he had never even _thought_ about what stopping that transfer could mean for the lives of other people. It was one thing to make older people look after themselves and something else entirely to take an opportunity away from a _kid_, even if it _was_ Ginny.

He tried to tell himself that the whole thing was _Dumbledore's_ fault for stealing the money in the first place, that the old man hadn't cared if Harry had everything from his parents drained away before he knew it was even there so _he_ shouldn't care what it took to get everything back, but that just wasn't something he was able to do.

"We don't need a set of books each," Fred told his parents in an unusually serious tone. "We've still got Bill and Charlie's old books. And if we could pry this year's out of Percy's hands-"

"-They're yours," his prefect brother quickly agreed.

"-Then George and I can share," he continued. "One set of Lockhart books could do for all of us, for all the good they'll probably do us."

"I'm sure Bill and Charlie would help us a bit," Mr. Weasley said uncertainly. "And if anything could get Aunt Muriel to help-"

"That old _crone_ would blame us, Arthur," Molly said. "And we can't ask our _children_ to pay for this."

"I could pay for it," Harry said drawing all the Weasleys' eyes to him.

"Thank you, Harry," Molly said when she was able to speak again. "But we can't ask you to pay for it either."

"I can pay for it," he pressed, "because I was going to be paying for it _originally_ anyway."

The Weasleys looked confused; Harry took a breath before continuing.

"I – I said last week that someone had been stealing from me," Harry chose to look only to Molly since she had been the one to stand up for his privacy back then. "Well, they weren't just _stealing_ money," he explained. "They were _giving_ it away too. One of the things they gave to was called the Hogwarts Hopefuls; it looked like they had been doing it for _years_. We didn't know what it was," Harry said quickly. "Nobody at Gringotts had even _heard_ of it, so we stopped it," he shrugged.

"I never thought I'd know someone who needed it," Harry finished weakly. If Dumbledore had come to collect him right then, he didn't know if he'd even bother to put up a struggle.

"So first you take her money," Ron said rising. "And then you want to be a _hero_ and give it back? Some _friend_ you are, Harry," he said sourly as he stormed off to his room.

"It wasn't _her_ money, Ron, it was _his_," Fred called after him.

"Fred, Percy could you-," Molly started before Fred interrupted.

"-Let the git stew," he said as he pulled Percy back to his seat when he had numbly moved to rise.

"You'll have to forgive Ron, he's-he's just concerned for his sister," Molly said to Harry.

"And a git," Fred stared mutinously at above him.

Harry took it as a sign of the seriousness of the conversation that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley let the comment stand.

"Ginny wouldn't have _wanted_ the scholarship if she knew the money had been _stolen_, Harry," Molly said._ "None_ of the family would have."

"What?" Harry asked confused.

"Half the family's benefited from the Hopefuls program," Mr. Weasley said explained. "Really, _all_ of us have. Bill, Charlie, and Percy are _all_ Hopefuls-" he said as Percy stared numbly into space. "And it was only by saving up for all those years that we've been able to send Fred, George, and Ron to Hogwarts. We may not have much, but we pay our way when we can."

Strangely enough, that _did_ make Harry feel better.

"I'd still like to help," Harry said. "You'll be doing me a favor, actually." He went on when they looked at him curiously. "The person who stole from me was only able to do it because they _claim_ to be my guardian."

"You mean those muggles you live with?" Mr. Weasley asked.

"No, this is someone in the wizarding world," Harry explained. "He abandoned me with the Dursleys a long time ago. _They_ would've had the account cleaned out in a single day and dumped me at an orphanage if they had known."

"You know who this person is?" Fred asked.

"Yes, that's why I need _your_ help in staying _away_ from them," Harry said to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. "I need a place I can stay, at least until my next birthday."

"You can stay here as long as you need, Harry. You know that," Molly said.

"Thanks, but I really need to pay," Harry explained. "My litigator said that it would really help us out. Actually," he got up and retrieved the rental agreement from the drawer, "He sent this over today. I just didn't know of anything I could offer you in exchange for letting me rent a room and I didn't think you'd take money for it."

Molly looked down at the agreement for a while before turning to her husband.

"Arthur?"

Mr. Weasley looked thoughtful.

"With Bill and Charlie gone, taking on a renter _does_ make sense," Mr. Weasley said. "And his stuff _is_ already here. Paying for Hogwarts _entirely_ is out of the question, but paying for the _year_ – if you think of it as a lump sum payment rather than paying month-to-month, it's actually much more reasonable."

"But Arthur, we couldn't charge-," Molly protested.

"We'd _both_ be benefiting," Harry said. "And I for one would consider it well worth the price to be able to call this place my home."

Molly smiled and gave him a pat on the hand.

"What do we need to do?" she asked.

It was with great relief that Harry ran past George coming downstairs as he made his way up to his room to fetch his Blood Quill, though he did have to double back for a regular quill and ink. He had no intention of pulling a Lockhart and signing the whole thing in _blood_, and didn't think the Weasleys would either. He got back in time to hear the end of George's report on Ginny.

"That'll make her feel better," George said. "The Harry thing might be a bit – Oh, hey Harry, or should we call you _Roomie_ now?"

"Just Harry will be fine," he answered.

Fortunately, while it may have taken forever for it to arrive, it appeared the rental agreement was charmed to walk them through the process. It even outlined the section for them to fill in what way, or how much, Harry was going to pay in return and where they all needed to sign. The twins looked at him in askance when he pulled out his wand, but seemed to accept contracts being an exception to the 'no magic outside of school' rule when he explained it.

A huge weight lifted off his shoulders when it was done, so much so that he felt a little lightheaded. With a _pop!_ the house-elf from before reappeared with a bright smile and her arms held out like she wanted a hug.

"Oh, Merlin!" Molly said with a hand to her heart. She obviously hadn't been expecting such a sudden visitor.

"Er – Are you here for this, Mipsy?" Harry asked, holding up the agreement.

"Oh! Yes, Mister Hairy Pots-sir," she said embarrassedly.

"Make sure to thank him again for me, won't you?" Harry asked as he handed it over.

Mipsy nodded and with another quick wave and a "Bye!" she left again with a _pop!_

"Mister Hairy Pots?" Fred asked with a grin.

"How do you grow hair on a pot?" his twin continued.

"Apparently, I'm some sort of Chia Pet," he answered.

The twins may not have known what he was talking about, but _he_ found it hilarious.

"Ron will be alright, won't he?" Harry asked. "It'd be rather awkward staying here until next year if he hates me."

"I'll look in on him and Ginny," Mr. Weasley said wearily, running his fingers through his sparse hair. "I'll make sure they know what's going on."

As Mr. Weasley left, Harry thought he heard a muttered _'git'_ from one of the twins, no doubt talking about their petulant missing brother.

"Oh! Where's my head?" Molly said, rising to her feet again. "I've forgotten all about breakfast."

Seeming to make up for lost time, Mrs. Weasley had a feast on the table in no time at all. Harry ate gratefully, his hunger returning as soon as the agreement was settled. Ron didn't return for the meal but Mrs. Weasley tried to put his mind at ease.

"Ron'll come around eventually," she said as she dished out a second helping onto their plates. "He's got too much of the Prewett pride in him to make it easy. My brothers were just the same. They'd be the first to jump to each other's defense, but one wrong word and Fabian and Gideon wouldn't speak to each other for _months_. Merlin knows Ron could do more to be proud _of_ though," Molly said with a shake of her head. "His grades were _dreadful_."

"Fred and I were thinking about getting him to try out for Keeper this year," George said.

"Wood's not going to be there forever," Fred explained, "and McGonagall lit into him when we lost our chance for the Cup last year for not having any reserve players. Even if they can hardly fly they're better than none at all, and Ron's not half bad."

Percy put down his fork; food in his stomach finally seemed to solidify what he wanted to say.

"Harry, on behalf of myself and all the other Hopefuls," the prefect said formally, "I'd like to express my appreciation for what you've done for us."

"You don't have to do that," Harry said embarrassed._ "I_ didn't do anything, so there's no use in appreciating what a thieving _guardian_ did with the money."

Mrs. Weasley looked embarrassed as she heaped another helping onto their plates.

"Still," Percy pressed, "the Hopefuls have always felt _immensely_ grateful for our chance and have _always_ looked for some way to make a difference. Bill always applied himself because of it and Charlie chose the dragons over Quidditch because he thought living the rest of his life on a broomstick was be a poor way to pay Hogwarts back for giving him that chance."

"You remember that broom England gave him to try to change his mind?" Fred asked George enviously.

"Wish he would've left it behind," George agreed. "That burst of speed would knock your socks off."

A look passed between them sending George to his feet and heading for the stairs. Fred lingered for a moment, shoveling what he could of his eggs into his mouth before he moved to follow.

"Now where are _you two_ going?" their mother asked.

"Can't tell you that, Mum, but I solemnly swear that we're up to no good," Fred said piously.

"That's not good enough," she said, grabbing the back of his shirt and pulling him back to his seat. "You tell me what you two are up to."

Just then there was a knock at the door, causing Harry's stomach to plummet.

"You wait right there," Molly told Fred with a warning finger and steely look as she went to answer the door.

Harry put his fork down and took a calming breath, waiting for the inevitable.

"Albus! How are you? What a pleasant surprise," Molly said as she welcomed the traitorous old man inside.

"Fine, just fine," Dumbledore said as he entered. "Ah! I see that your letters have arrived."

"Well – yes," Mrs. Weasley said, a bit flustered. "We _were_ rather concerned at first, of course, but everything's turned out for the best. You can keep Ginevra's name down, we'll be able to pay," she explained with a smile to Harry.

"Really?" Dumbledore smiled to Harry, a gesture he didn't return. "Quite fascinating. I don't suppose I could trouble you for a minute of Harry's time? We have a lot to discuss."

"We don't have _anything_ to discuss," Harry cut in before Mrs. Weasley had a chance to respond.

Harry felt his nervousness grow in leaps and bounds and he quickly tried to get a hold of himself. _'Be Harold_,' Harry said to himself. _'If there's one moment to be Harold, this is it_.' He felt like he was going to be sick.

"I think you'll find that there's a _great deal_ you need to know," Dumbledore said in what he thought might pass for kind, if you didn't know any better.

"I think _you'll_ find that there's a _great deal_ I know already," Harry said coldly.

"Harry-" Mrs. Weasley said, trying to keep things civil. As if Dumbledore being there were some kind of grand event in itself.

"I think it might be best if I take young Harry back home to his family," Dumbledore said to Molly with a hurt look.

"That place was _never_ my home, and those _people_ were never my family," the Harry that was Harold said.

"Certainly, you don't mean that, Harry," the headmaster said, as if trying to sooth a distraught child. "They are the only family you have."

"An accident of birth," Harold said, the phrase popping up from somewhere as he stood. "That doesn't make _them_ my family or that _place_ my home. _This_ is my home," he explained. "That was _signed and sealed_ before you ever arrived. These people have been more like family to me in the last week than the Dursleys ever were in ten years."

"Wha-what is going on?" Mrs. Weasley asked, standing by her sons. Percy looked torn while Harry doubted that Fred's eyes could get any bigger.

He felt his hands grow heavy, as if all the blood in his body decided to congregate there at once. Harry flexed his fingers and had to keep himself from reaching for his wand, just to make sure it was there.

"Yes, why don't you tell her what's going on?" he asked. "Why don't you tell her how you _abandoned_ me with those magic-hating _monsters_ and how you've been _stealing_ my parents' money away all this time?"

"Albus?" Molly asked, at a loss for what to think.

"Harry," the headmaster said with a wounded expression. "I never abandoned you. You don't think I'd do that to you, do you?"

Mrs. Weasley looked to him.

The nervous flutter in his stomach exploded to life once more and Harry felt the edges of panic. Had he been wrong? Was this Quirrell all over again? All that time last year he had been distracted by Snape only to learn that it was _Quirrell_ that was trying to steal the Sorcerer's Stone for Voldemort, who had been _possessed_ by Voldemort.

Was there some other guardian out there?

_'No,'_ the Harold part of him thought. _'We're right. We _have to _be right. It's the only thing that makes sense.'_

_'Since when does the wizarding world make sense?'_ his doubt asked.

_'He's the snake_,' the Harry part of him said, full of righteous anger. _'We can't trust the snake. We're not as _dumb-as-a-door_ anymore.'_

"Yes," Harry said, looking Dumbledore straight in the eye. "I think you did _exactly_ that."

"Harry," the headmaster said sadly, "the goblins have _twisted_ your mind. I never _abandoned_ you, and I never _stole_ from you. Your family had always been very generous patrons, I was merely following in their footsteps and doing what I thought was best."

"Then you _are_ his guardian?" Mrs. Weasley asked.

"His _magical_ guardian, yes," Dumbledore explained. "His aunt and uncle have the right to him in the muggle world."

Harry's doubts fluttered again and he tried to tamp them down, remembering what Lichfield had said.

"I was born at St. Mungo's to a witch and wizard," he said, with maybe a _touch_ of panic coloring his words. "I never should have gone to the muggle world. Someone _here_ should have looked after me."

"The person your parents picked proved untrustworthy, so _I_ was appointed by the Minister of Magic himself," Dumbledore said in a tone that clearly communicated that he shouldn't have to explain himself, especially to a child. "It was up to _me_ to decide what was best for you."

Harry switched tracks and attacked again.

"Like it was up to you to decide what was best for my parents' money?" Harold asked. "They locked their account down as much as they could. My grandfather called what you did the _Beggar's Circuit_. That doesn't sound _generous_ to me. It wasn't _your_ place to help yourself to _their_ money or to kick people off their land."

"It's a guardian's duty to see to the financial affairs of their charges, and I never kicked people off of anything," the headmaster said in the same wounded voice, but Harold wasn't having it.

"Right, you just had _Gropegold_ do it for you so you could keep your hands clean," Harold attacked again.

_"Gropego-!" _Molly exclaimed.

"And the only person who _twisted_ anyone's mind is _you_," Harold said forcefully. "I _saw_ what you did to Hammerhand. He tried to _protect_ my family and you _twisted his mind!"_

The part of him that was still the little boy in the cupboard spoke up and the Harold part of him proved defenseless against him.

"It's a _guardian's duty_ to actually _raise_ their charges," Harry said quietly. "They're not supposed to _throw them away_ the first time they need their nappy changed."

Mrs. Weasley looked at the headmaster in shock and for the first time he seemed uncertain how to respond.

"Living with your relatives was the safest place for you," Albus said at last. "And what happened with the goblin was an unfortunate accident; I only intended to persuade him that it was for the best."

"Albus," Molly said, looking stricken. "Gropegold? Surely you wouldn't do that."

Dumbledore for once looked humbled and hung his head.

"We only have five years left. We've been here for _twenty five years_," she said beseechingly as Harry looked at her curiously. This time _he_ was the one at a loss.

"I'm sorry," the headmaster said, "but it is for the greater good."

Mrs. Weasley paled, whatever she had thought his answer would be – that wasn't it. A moment of silence held before–

"Get out!" Mrs. Weasley said.

"I beg your pardon?" Dumbledore said.

"You heard me," Molly said forcefully, pointing at the door. "GET OUT!"

"Surely you don't think so ill of me," the headmaster said, back in his wounded old man voice. "Two of your sons: Fred, and Percy are _named_ for me."

Percy legs fell out from under him as he collapsed back to his chair; Harry hadn't even recalled him standing; Fred looked like his brain had melted.

"And don't you think for one minute that I'm not considering changing them to _James_ and _Barry_ for what you've done," Mrs. Weasley said, backing Dumbledore towards the door. "Steal from a _child? Abandon_ him? HOW _COULD_ YOU?"

Harry watched in stupefied silence as plump little housewife, Molly Weasley, faced down the most powerful wizard in the country.

"You are _not welcome_ in this house," she said. "And if I _never_ hear the name _Albus Dumbledore_ again, it'll be too soon!"

"Might I use your floo?" the old man asked, as if hoping for one last courtesy.

_"No_, you may not use our floo!" an astonished Mrs. Weasley said. "Boys!" she cried imperiously. "Throw him out!"

Fred and Percy got immediately to their feet. Her tone was such that even _Harry_ found himself moving to open the door as the brothers shuffled their headmaster out into the garden. Harry slammed the door with a smile on his face, though he did peek through the curtains until he saw Dumbledore start to walk away.

There were quick footfalls on the stairs as a concerned-looking Mr. Weasley came back down.

"Did someone say Dumbledore?" he asked.

"He was here," a still-fuming Molly said. "And you won't _believe_ what he said."

_"We_ don't believe that we could be _named_ for him," Fred said, standing by a nodding Percy. "How does _that_ happen?"

"It's a long story, Fred," their father said.

Fred sat down and crossed his arms in defiance, clearly communicating that he wasn't going _anywhere_ until he heard it.

"It's about – _relations_," their mother added.

Percy mirrored his brother while looking to his parents expectantly. Harry thought it would probably be best to leave and give them a good long moment alone; he could get his questions answered later.

"No, you can stay, Harry," Mrs. Weasley said as he began to leave. "This has to do with you too, and I'm sure you have questions."

Harry shot her a curious look and wondered if they were about to get a wizarding version of_ "the talk."_

"Not _those_ kinds of questions," she said quickly. "I think we've _both_ have had _quite enough_ of would-be guardians for today."

Somewhat relieved, though unsure how _relations with Molly Weasley_ could have anything to do with _him_, Harry cautiously sat down by the two brothers. Mrs. Weasley looked to her husband as he put his hand around her shoulder.

"The truth will out," he said as he pulled out a chair for her.

"But how do we even _begin_?" she asked.

"We got married?" her husband shrugged and sat across from them.

"Well, yes, I suppose that _would_ be a way to start it," she said as she sat as well. "When your father and I got married," Molly said to her sons, "we lived for a while in this _very_ small flat."

_"Tiny_, really," Mr. Weasley added.

"It certainly wasn't the place you'd need if you wanted a family, which we did, very much," she continued. "Your father had a friend at the time that worked for Gringotts and he asked around for someone who'd be willing to rent out a place for something we could afford."

"Eventually, he found someone," Mr. Weasley took up the tale. "It wasn't a _house_ but it was a nice plot of land, at a good price, close to a village where we could get anything we might need."

"It was a chance to build a home of our own, however we wanted to build it," Mrs. Weasley smiled.

"-And when the kind old man who owned the place found out why we wanted it," Mr. Weasley shared her smile, "he took the land and _doubled_ _it_ saying-"

"-'Lots of kids need lots of room to play,' what a nice old man," Mrs. Weasley finished for him.

"And Dumbledore?" Fred prompted.

"We're getting there," his mother scolded. "The first bit of house came quick enough and we thought we'd make a start on a family in no time," she said as Percy squirmed a bit.

"As time went on-," Mr. Weasley said.

"-We thought that something might be wrong," Molly said, somewhat embarrassed. "For two – three years we'd tried with no luck-"

"We tried potions, charms, standing on our-"

"They get the idea, Arthur," Molly cut in on him. "Finally we went to St. Mungo's to see if there was anything _they_ could do."

"The healers there said we had already tried everything they could think of," Arthur said somberly. "If the magic was going to work, if there was anything _there_ for it to work _on_, it already would have."

"I was devastated," Molly said. "One of the Healers took pity on me and suggested I approach Albus Dumbledore for help."

"But how could _he_ help you?" Fred asked.

"Because Albus Dumbledore _used to be_ a great man," Molly said as her husband looked at her in askance. "He and this friend of his had studied cures and the like for _decades_, and the Healer said that if _anyone_ could help us, that friend of his could."

"Of course we told him that we couldn't pay-," Mr. Weasley said.

"-And Dumbledore said that the man had _no need_ of money and he was sure that he'd help," she continued. "He lived in this tower in the _Hebrides_, of all places, with _goblin guards_ of all things."

"I said it was like going to the North Pole to see a very odd Father Christmas," Arthur said.

"I called him _Saint_ Nick, because that was his name," Molly said.

"Nicholas Flamel?" Harry asked.

"You've heard of him?" Arthur asked.

"We've heard of him," the boys replied.

"Well," Molly continued, "these other goblins came with this heavy steal chest and–"

_"And?"_ Fred asked.

"I don't know," his mother said with a shrug. "For the life of us we can't remember. They said they had to _Obliviate_ us in order to protect the secret of how it was done, and we were so _thankful_ for even the _chance_ that it might work that we never pried into it."

"Needless to say, it worked," Arthur said with a smile. "In three months or so William was on the way. Of course we called him Bill bec-"

"-Because of Uncle Bilius," Fred and Percy said by rote.

"And then came Charlie," their mother said, "who we named after _Charlus_, the nice old man who gave us such a nice home to begin with."

"My grandfather?" Harry asked, astonished.

Mrs. Weasley smiled as the brothers gave him an interesting look.

"But how do you get _Fred_ and _Percy_ out of _Albus Dumbledore_?" Fred asked.

"Because the man has more than _two parts_ to his name," his mother scolded him for ruining such a nice moment. "Albus _Percival_-," she gestured to Percy, "_Wulfric_-," she gestured to Fred "–which became _Frederick_, because we _certainly_ weren't going to call you either _Wulf_ or _Rick_," she shot her husband a glance, _"Brian_ – which Ron was _very_ nearly named – Dumbledore."

"That's a lot of names," Fred said, echoing Harry's own thoughts at the moment. "Why didn't you ever tell us?"

"What was the _point_ of telling you?" she asked in return. "It's the same reason we had _not_ to tell Harry when _he_ arrived. We thought the land and lease had been sold years ago when the goblin we paid rent to changed, we didn't think anything _shifty_ was going on. Saying, _'Oh, Hello, Harry, we used to rent this land from your family_,' would have made things _awkward_."

Harry heard the fireplace roar to life but he only had eyes for Mrs. Weasley.

"So I'm your _landlord_," Harry said, trying to wrap his head around the situation. "But I'm also your _tenant_?"

It was a gruff voice that answered him.

"Law gets kinda _funny_, don't it?"

Harry looked up to see his litigator brushing soot off his clothes with a grin.

"Lichfeld?" Molly Weasley asked curiously as if trying to place the face to a name.

"Close," the old bailiff said. "It's _-field_, not –feld. Looks like you got those kids you wanted."

"You know Lichfield?" an astonished Harry asked.

"Of course we know him," Molly said. "He used to pick up our rent from time to time and gave us a nice long extension on our lease."

"Hang on," Harry said, turning to Lichfield. "You said you _thought_ you knew the Weasleys."

"I _did_ think I knew them," the litigator said. "I _knew_ I knew them. It's a kind of thinking."

"You could have _told_ me, and you could've gotten here _earlier_, you know," Harry said. "Dumbledore came by and tried to take me with him."

"Sorry," Lichfield said. "But I thought it was more important that everything was done as soon as possible so him _taking_ you would've been _illegal_. Besides, I didn't think you needed your nappy changed. I would've been here sooner but I had to calm a panicked Overseer."

"What happened?" Harry asked concerned.

"Dumbledore made an odd move and Barchoke thought he was going to curse him in the middle of the lobby," the old bailiff explained. "Probably thought he was going to go out the same way his father did. Damn!" Lichfield said when he caught what he said.

"Hammerhand is-"

"Don't you _dare_ tell him I said that, got it?" Lichfield said with a look

"Got it," Harry said with his hands up. "So," he said to Mrs. Weasley, "when I mentioned Gropegold-"

"-I knew then that the land had never been sold off," she answered quickly.

"It couldn't be," Lichfield interjected.

"-And with Albus acting as guardian-," she continued.

"What do you mean it had never been sold?" her husband asked. "I thought for sure that-."

"Albus was going to have that-that _goblin_ kick us out as soon as our lease was up," Mrs. Weasley said, again with a full head of steam. "He stood right in our house and admitted it himself. I never would have thought he'd attack that other goblin though; _he_ was _very_ professional."

Mr. Weasley looked shocked.

"He attacked him?" Lichfield asked. "He _admitted_ it?"

"He said he tried to _persuade_ him," Harry answered.

"How the hell did you get him to say _that_?" the litigator asked.

"I just said I knew what he'd done," Harry shrugged.

"No you didn't," Percy said. It was the first time he'd spoken for a while.

"Sorry?" Harry said.

"You said you _saw_ it," Percy explained.

"Well, it's what I meant," Harry said. "Does that make a difference?"

"Oh, yes," Lichfield said. "Because there are ways you _can_ actually _see_ the past. In _memories_. If he thought you had seen Hammerhand's memory of the event he would have wanted to put his own spin on what you saw. Might actually mean there might be something there to look for."

"You're really going after him, aren't you?" Mr. Weasley asked. "Dumbledore, I mean."

"Absolutely," Lichfield said. "Speaking of which, I'm going to need a statement and memory from everyone here who saw that exchange, and your permission for it for those kids who saw it."

Mrs. Weasley looked to Harry, then nodded.

"Mipsy!" Lichfield called, bringing the little elf _pop!_-ing back.

"Yes, Mister Lichy, sir?" she asked.

"Go to my office. I need Truth Quills, vials, legal vellum, and two Underage Witness Forms," Lichfield said to the elf before she disappeared with a big grin. "I may just have to make her my legal secretary," he said to Harry. "She's come in quite handy today."

In moments Mipsy was back with a load of stuff in her arms. Harry helped her put it on the table so it wouldn't spill out all over the place as Lichfield slid the forms over to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. It took several minutes and some precise spell casting and labeling by Lichfield before the four somewhat smoky vials full of memories found their way into his pocket.

Harry didn't think he wanted any more _Memory Extractions_ performed for a while; the side of his head felt decidedly numb and it felt odd to blink. Mrs. Weasley sent Fred and Percy off to find something to do, completely forgetting what she had wanted to know from Fred in the first place.

Harry remembered something he had wanted to give Lichfield and had forgotten in his letter. Telling him to wait there, he ran up to his room to put back his Blood Quill and retrieve that other odd _Boy-Who-Lived_ book that he had gotten from Ginny.

If _he_ had found it odd, _Lichfield_ had looked at him like he was crazy. The old bailiff took it anyway though, saying that he'd check it out.

As the Litigator rose to leave, Harry remembered something else to talk to him about.

_'When did my life get so complicated?'_ he asked himself.

"Did you find Dobby?"

"Oh, right," Lichfield said, as if _he_ had forgotten as well. "I found him. Negotiations are done, we just need a time to finalize the exchange."

"We're planning on visiting Diagon Alley on Wednesday, if that's what you mean," Harry said.

"Wednesday works," Lichfield said with a nod. "I'll tell them and be on the lookout for you. Did we have anything else?" he asked as if mentally reviewing things himself.

"I don't _think_ so," Harry said. Maybe he should start carrying around a list.

With a nod to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, the wizened old bailiff left in another gout of green flames.

It was only after the Litigator left that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley spoke again.

"Harry," Mrs. Weasley started delicately. "We wanted to thank you for being so _understanding_ about that whole _book_ issue. I tried to get rid of them for _years_ but they kept disappearing and popping up again."

"It's alright, Mrs. We- er - Molly," Harry said before an idea came to him. "If it's not too much to ask, I actually had one other thing to ask you for."

"Just name it, Harry, and it's yours," she said kindly.

.o0O0o.

"You left at the wrong time, little brother. We learned_ a lot_ after you left," the twin the thought was George said - or was that one Fred? They should have to go around together all the time so no one would have to guess like that.

"It doesn't _matter_ what you learned," Ron said stubbornly. "I know all I _need_ to know. So much for him being a _true friend_."

"There's nothing _wrong_ with telling a thief to stop stealing from you, Ron," Freorge said. "And that's all Harry did. How could _he_ know what that thief was going to do with it, or how much other people were counting on it happening?"

Ron tried not to listen, they were only trying to confuse him.

"And Harry _has_ been a true friend - to this entire family," Percy said.

What _Percy_ was doing hanging around with one of the twins, Ron didn't know, but he certainly wasn't going to spend his time thinking about it.

"You have no _idea_ what he's done for us," his stuffy brother continued. "Paying for Ginny's school this year is only the _start_ of it. He has this whole _family_ in the palm of his hand and _he's_ more concerned with having to leave and losing your friendship than anything else!"

That-that didn't sound right to Ron. How could it be? Why would Harry care about _him_ more than he did about money? Money was _everything_.

"And worse for _you_," the Geored-twinthingy said. "Is that you've got Mum miffed at you. And since she just faced down Albus Dumbledore and _threw him_ out of the house, her bad side is _not_ a good place to be at the moment."

If the rest didn't make any sense, that was just _loony_. Mum _loved_ Dumbledore and never heard a word against him. What could make - It just didn't - And Percy didn't go along with -

"What the bloody hell are you going on about?" he asked.

.o0O0o.

"I can't even talk to him! Not a single word?" a distressed Ginny asked.

"Not. One. Word," her mother reiterated.

"Not even to say 'thank you'?"

"You can say 'thank you,'" her mother said, "by _not_ saying 'thank you.'"

Ginny couldn't believe it. How could things have gotten _even worse_? The moment that Harry comes through for her when she needed help the most, the moment that showed that he might one day grow up to be the Harry from the stories - _that's_ the moment that she can't talk to him any more?!

"But my birthday's on _Tuesday_," she said anxiously. "He'll be there, won't he?"

Harry _had to_ be there on her birthday. It was the day she became eleven, when she _really_ became a young woman of Hogwarts age.

"He'll be spending the day in his room, _alone_, and probably writing to his _girlfriend_," her mother said, twisting the knife inside her. "I'll be casting a spell on the stairs myself to make sure you can't get up to his level."

"But Mum!" she cried.

"No _buts_," her mother said. "You've _had_ your chance to get to know him and you've _blown_ it. You'll stay away from him from now on. He's been _incredibly_ generous to even let you go to Hogwarts at all, so you'll keep your mind on your books when you're there. Your brothers will be watching to make sure you don't bother him when you're at school too."

"They know?" she asked, shocked at the betrayal.

"Of course they _know_," her mother said. "How could they _not_ know. You creep him out! You've been creeping them _all_ out. The sooner you forget about Harry and find people your own age to talk to, the better off you'll be."

Ginny glared mutinously at her mother with her hands folded across her chest until the woman left her room. Her mother wasn't happy that she had no books anymore, she just had to take her imagination and any possible hope from her too. Now she didn't have any friends at all and no one to talk to.

.o0O0o.

Frail old Albus looked back at the cheerful little house with scarcely any cheer in his heart. The Greater Good had presented Harry with an opportunity to do its will, and though he had acted on its behalf, he had done so halfway, and for something in return. Perhaps if he had gotten here sooner, or if those goblins hadn't worked against him, greedy as they were, he could have achieved _more_ for the Greater Good.

That thought weighed heavy on his heart though he contented himself with the knowledge that there was still plenty of time left for the boy. _Years_ lay ahead of them before Harry had to do what must be done, and the lad was well on his way. There was still _plenty_ of time to guide the boy until he was ready to make the ultimate sacrifice for the good of all.

Still, one thing did trouble the kindly old grandfather of the wizarding world. So much of what young Harry had said were but twisted parts of the truth of things. Should his trusted allies hear those twisted beliefs before he could make the truth known to them then there was a chance, however small, that they might believe them, as Harry did. Perhaps it was time to take them into his confidence.

With a weary heart, Albus turned for home. It had not been the outing he had been hoping for, but everyone deserved a second chance.

.o0O0o.

**AN:** I've never liked it when others refer to Fred and George _collectively_ as Forge (as if the two had fused into one body, without Gred along with it - though that's a stale joke as well), which is why I particularly enjoyed Ron's attempt to call _one_ of them something else. And after not bashing the Weasleys for this long, you didn't think I'd start _now_, did you? Besides, why make them _evil_ when you can make them _serfs_? And as for a confrontation using magic? Action like that has to be _earned_ and both Harry and Dumbledore (insane and deluded as he may be) are smart enough to know that _that_ would be precisely the wrong thing to do to get what they want.

Thanks for reading.


	12. Bias

.o0O0o.

"I WANT HIS HEAD ON A PIKE ON HOG'S HEAD HILL FOR WHAT HE'S DONE!" the irate Overseer cried, practically foaming at the mouth in his anger.

"And you'll get it," Lichfield answered him. "Maybe not the head, or the pike, or Hog's Head Hill since his brother bloody well _owns it_, but we'll get him."

"NOT SOON ENOUGH!" the Overseer's words rattled the windows as spittle flew from his thin lips.

Lester knew when it started that Barchoke would be incensed but _this_ gave a new definition to goblin rage. The man – no, the _goblin_ – was ready to lead a march on Hogwarts itself and damn the consequences for everyone in what came after. There was only one thing he could do.

"What is the failing of your race?" Lichfield demanded.

"You _dare_ say that ther–?" Barchoke fumed.

"You've said it _yourself_, you damn fool!" the Litigator interrupted, his own voice rising to match the Overseer's. "Now what is the failing of your race!"

Barchoke stared at him, his eyes hard and full of malice, breath coming in great huffs, and body positioned wide to make a more intimidating target – looking every inch the goblin warrior that the banker might have been if history had unfolded differently. After several tense seconds the goblin's breathing slowed and his body relaxed a bit so that the fine suit he wore no longer looked at risk of bursting at the seams.

"Patience," Barchoke said, the anger in his voice turning to bitterness at having to wait. "Goblins have no patience."

"And repeating what happened _three hundred and eighty years ago_ doesn't seem a particularly _wise_ course of action," Lichfield pressed, if only to put an end to any such thought. "That didn't turn out too well for you lot last time, did it?"

The Overseer flumped back into his seat and stared out of his row of office windows.

"It got the Ministry to stop minting their own Galleons," Barchoke said, taking up the opportunity to speak about something else.

"And how many goblins died, only to get what you had in the first place?" Lichfield asked. "You never got representation in the Wizengamot you were looking for."

"Bah!" Barchoke waved the issue off. Now was not the time to settle old scores, it was time to find out how to settle _new_ ones. "You'll get him?" the goblin asked roughly.

"We'll get him," Lester replied. "Not sure exactly _how_ yet, but we'll get him. If all else fails, you'll have to settle for him rotting in Azkaban for the rest of his life, but we'll get him."

"No," Barchoke said. _"I_ want him. He's _mine_. I will make his life a living Hell the likes of which you humans have never imagined, and after I'm satisfied that _vengeance_ has been served, maybe _then_ I'll let him die."

Lichfield ran his gnarled hands over his equally gnarled face and sat back down in his chair. There'd be no budging the goblin on this, he had known that since the day Barchoke had come to his house – back when he had still _had_ the house – and begged him to _make_ Gringotts look after his father for what had been done to him. And to think that it was just an idle comment, a flimsy _guess_ tossed out about a _possible_ cause that had lit the fire in the goblin in front of him and led him to shave his head and swear vengeance against a _hypothetical_ someone that might not have even existed.

The goblin race does not forget, nor do they forgive, it's what has made relations between the two peoples prickly at best. The fact that individual members also carried these traits to varying degrees made friendships tricky to navigate, but in Lichfield's mind they were worth it just the same. It made for implacable enemies and stalwart allies. To beat them you had to be just as implacable as they were, but when it came to being allies, you had to do things the _goblin_ way when they demanded it and they'd do the same for you. It was the price you paid for friendship.

"The boy's just a start," the Overseer said. "A _good_ start, but we'll never get our hands him with that. They'll do anything they can to keep him away from me once they catch hint of goblin involvement. We need something else, something _big_. There has to be something in his past we're not seeing."

Lester gave his head a good scratch to give himself a moment to get his thoughts together.

"What's the situation with Gropegold?" he asked when he was done.

"Cracked like an egg as soon as we showed him the Keys we got from Dumbledore," Barchoke said. "He's spilling everything now, but the fool still thinks he'll be set free. I doubt even _he_ knows why the old man wanted what he did. Auditor Axegrind will probably have damages assessed by the time the boy gets here on – When was that?"

"Wednesday."

Barchoke nodded curtly.

"I've got a few things we can check up on," Lester said. "It might come to nothing more than more information to knock the old man off that pedestal he sits on and drag his name through the mud, but it's something."

"What is it?" the goblin asked.

"I have to warn you though," Lester said, trying to hide his smile. "It'll involve a lot of reading and digging for information. You sure you're up for it?" he asked with feigned sensitivity for their previous discussion.

"You leave it to me, I'll handle it. You just tell me what it is," the goblin said, now thoroughly hooked.

"This is one of _several_, or so it seems," Lichfield said, placing an odd book beside the globe of salsa dancers and smoky vials on the Overseer's desk. "I recognize the name of the press but you'll probably need to find and read _all_ of them to see if there are any clues to what the old man might be up to."

Lichfield smiled as a disgusted look crossed Barchoke's face.

"Have fun! I'm off to kidnap some old helpless woman. Tata!"

"Wait – _What?"_ the confused goblin asked.

As he closed the door behind him, Lester couldn't help but laugh. This was turning out to be _fun_.

.o0O0o.

Hermione. Was. Stunned. As she looked down at the letter she held in her hands, the bit of her brain still functioning after that information overload was unsure precisely _how_ to classify what she felt the moment, but thought that _stunned_ was a bit of an understatement.

Block by logical block Harry had built up his case against the headmaster. He had taken her seriously when she said she wanted every minute detail; the letter had gone on for _ages_ outlining where his information came from, what he had seen first–hand, what he suspected, what different individuals had told him, and what Dumbledore _himself_ had corroborated. It must have taken him most of the day to write it.

"Hermione, are you alright?" her father asked from his customary seat at the circular dinner table.

"What?" she asked, not really rousing from the mental surprise attack. She had been so desperate for information that she had ripped open Harry's letter as soon as it arrived. Why had she done that at dinner? Oh, right. She had been so desperate for infor– She shook her head to stop herself from repeating herself.

"Is there something wrong?" her father coaxed, the absence of any joke noting the seriousness with which he was taking this.

She quickly thought back to see if Harry had written anything _relationship_–like in it before sliding the letter over to him. How could she explain something like that when she could barely wrap her head around it? Better to let him read it himself.

As her father's eyebrows sunk lower and lower one thing became _absolutely clear_: Harry had _no excuse_ for doing shoddy homework anymore. While there was virtually nothing in the way of an introduction, conclusion, or even transition from when he outlined his current _legal issues_ to explaining the longstanding connections between his family, the Weasleys, and Dumbledore, she supposed those could be disregarded since it was a _letter_ and not an essay for school.

And while there were still _gaps_ in what he alleges, and there was still a need for secondary independent sources to support the evidence he already had and to flesh out _precisely_ what went on, and he was _still_ holding things back, particularly with respect to his mysterious 'new friend' that had _somehow_ led him to Gringotts to uncover all of this, what he had was already pretty damning.

Her mind properly _back_ in gear, Hermione assigned it to do what it had been trained to do: analyze the claim to determine its validity and see what information, if any, she had that stood to refute it. Underlying Harry's allegation was a set of concrete legal assertions that must each be tested in turn and _those_ were what she had to focus on.

One: Harry was born in the _magical_ world to _magical_ parents. According to every credible source and all the available evidence, this statement was undeniably true. Only sources so biased so as to not be credible would point to his mother's nonmagical origin and heritage in an attempt to invalidate this claim, and that was a case of Moving the Goalposts, a logical fallacy that had no place in determining the truth of an argument. The truth remained that Harry's parents were able to perform magic, and had lived in, fought for, and died in the magical world; anything else is immaterial.

Two: Harry _never_ should have been taken to the nonmagical world to live with the Dursleys. This assertion was particularly troublesome since encompassed so much of everything else and dealt with two areas that she knew precious little about: magical law and customs. That this assertion came from Lichfield, a professional and practicing wizarding lawyer who was well versed in both areas, leant credibility to the argument, but Dumbledore, an equally prominent – if not _more_ prominent – member of the legal community obviously had a differing opinion.

On the _cultural_ side of things, _Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ did specifically mention that it was common practice to send orphans to live with their closest relative during the time in question and had implied that this had always been the case. Though it was by no means an authoritative _legal_ text, she would feel better after reviewing that section for the specific wording involved to see if there was any implication that nonmagical family members were barred from the process.

Knowing now how _biased_ some legal issues were in favor of the "longstanding members of the wizarding community" she thought this might be an application of the lack of Standing that nonmagical people had when it came to Inheritance. On their first visit to Gringotts her father had wanted to give her additional money for any mementos she might want to have, as if their trip to Diagon Alley were to some sort of an amusement park. Their teller had made the off–color comment that her parents had better keep the money on _them_ or if she happened to _die_ any money she had on her would simply be _lost_ since they'd be unable to inherit anything she had.

The fact that Harry _did_ go to the nonmagical world logically pointed to some sort of arbitration and official judgment being made. The fact that this seemed to be corroborated by what both Lichfield and Dumbledore said about the issue indicated that this probably was indeed the case. Professor Dumbledore said, according to Harry, that he had been _appointed_ by the Minister of Magic. Whether this _appointment_ was the same _guardianship_, and carried the same legal weight, that Harry and Lichfield allege was still unclear.

This _appointment_ could simply mean that Professor Dumbledore, in his role as the head of the Wizengamot, was authorized to determine who should have parental rights to him. If _this_ was the case, if the legal determination _was_ his to make, then he very well _could_ have found in the Dursleys' favor. The fact that the Dursleys had never seemed to want him, at least in Harry's account of them, seemed to belie that they would _want_ Dumbledore to act on their behalf at all.

Hermione supposed it was _possible_ that the Dursleys had, at first, actually _wanted_ Harry, even if only to access his parents' supposedly considerable wealth, and only _later_ came to resent taking him in once the determination had been made and they had learned that they could never touch the Potter estate, and therefore had treated him poorly because of it. This seemed a logical assumption to make since Professor Dumbledore had used the specific legal term _Magical Guardian_ during his discussion with Harry.

During her visit to inform her family about the magical world in general, and about Hogwarts in particular, Professor McGonagall had explained some of the legal complexities involved with teaching students of nonmagical backgrounds. Though Hogwarts had a long history of acknowledging the authority and role that nonmagical parents had in the lives of their children, a tradition they continued through the issuance of permission slips before special trips or functions, the Ministry of Magic had no such tradition.

The fact remained that, by law, legal authority over an underage person's affairs in the magical world defaulted to the member of the family with the most knowledge of the magical world itself. Since at the time that a nonmagical family was approached with the truth of the magical world, both parent and child are presumed to have the same amount of magical knowledge, that legal authority still rested with the parents themselves. Professor McGonagall had warned that this would change though once magical education had begun unless a specific legal fix was adopted: the use of a magical guardian.

By signing their parental authority in magical affairs over to someone with greater magical knowledge, particularly one in an institution like Hogwarts that had a history of deferring to the wishes of nonmagical parents, as long as it did not conflict with the best interests of the child, then those same parents could retain as much authority over their underage children as possible.

If Professor Dumbledore _had_ granted the Dursleys legal rights to Harry, they very well _could_ have signed the remaining magical authority back over to Dumbledore. If that was the case, then she was hard pressed to see that he had done anything _illegal_. She wished she could say that he had done nothing _wrong_ but at the very _least_ the headmaster was negligent in his responsibility to ensure that Harry's nonmagical guardians had been treating him properly, and she couldn't see how keeping him ignorant of his wizarding heritage and draining away his inheritance was in _Harry's_ best interest when continued contact between them and good financial stewardship was possible.

The downside of this was that, as far as she knew, magical guardians were only used in cases where the child in question was of nonmagical parents. She supposed it could equally apply here and while all this made _logical_ sense to her she had to acknowledge that she lacked the specific grounding to know if it made any _legal_ sense. She simply didn't have enough information at this point to make a determination one way or the other.

While she would _love_ for Harry to be free to enjoy his life in the manner he saw fit and to reclaim everything he was entitled to, she didn't want to think so poorly of Professor Dumbledore. Well–meaning but negligent, or perhaps _unintentionally ignorant_ of any "mismanagement" on behalf of the Dursleys or this Gropegold, due to overwork and spreading himself too thin was one thing but intentional nefarious intent was something completely different.

"Enough processing," her father said, rousing her from her thoughts.

Hermione felt her stomach tighten as she saw her mother perusing the letter herself, though she noticed that she set it aside when it switched from Dumbledore to Harry's family's past. After all, why should _she_ care, the boy was only important to her _daughter_. She wished that she had had the presence of mind to wait until she had been alone to read the letter as she had all the other ones so her mother wouldn't have been involved.

"What do you think of this Dumbledore?" her mother asked.

"Despite being a surprisingly _silly_ old man that looks like Merlin from that Disney cartoon," Hermione started, hoping to somewhat irk her mother with the nonsensical reference before shifting to regurgitate facts at her. "He's supposed to be quite the accomplished academic and lawmaker, having risen to prominence after his defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945."

"His track record when it comes to children leaves much to be desired, if this is any indication," her mother continued. "Perhaps we should review the options?"

"No," Hermione said quickly, glad once again that she had kept the entire Sorcerer's Stone and Halloween incidents to herself. "This is nothing more than a private legal dispute between Harry and Professor Dumbledore. Aside from this _massive_ donation to a scholarship program, Harry didn't indicate that this had anything to do with the school at all. I've only been told about it as a friend so I don't see that any reviewing is necessary."

"And yet," her father added, "this _is_ the person that's being trusted to oversee the health and well–being of – what, a thousand students or more? Perhaps we _should_ consider a review."

Hermione stood abruptly, so scared that she was close to shaking. They were _not_ going to take her from Hogwarts.

"If I say no review is necessary then no review is necessary. Need I remind you that you sat at this very table and said – and I quote – _'Professor McGonagall, we don't believe that a magical guardian is necessary. We know Hermione better than anyone you can name and know her to be very level–headed and trust in her judgment.'_? If you could say that when I was _ten_, I don't see what could have happened in two years to change your mind, particularly when this issue has _nothing_ to do with me, doesn't affect me, and the man in question has yet to say a dozen words to me. And since my magical education _clearly_ falls into the realm of the magical world, that means the decision is _mine_ to make."

Her tirade had her father's eyebrows bouncing back up to his oddly frizzy hair, as if he was _amused_ it had even happened. It washed by her mother though like a river around a boulder, seeming to leave her completely unphased as she simply waited for it to end.

"It's not your critical thinking or decision–making ability that we are calling into question," her mother said. "Rather, it's your bias."

"Bias?" Hermione asked affronted. "How am_ I_ biased?"

"Everyone has their bias," her mother said. "The trick is finding it."

"And you have to admit," her father added, "you _do_ have a rather _large_ reason now to want to think of this as an isolated incident."

What followed wasn't a particularly enjoyable conversation, especially since it had her trying to mitigate any wrongdoing by Professor Dumbledore, which for some reason she found particularly _irksome_. While she could freely say that _if_ Harry's allegations against Dumbledore _were_ true then he _certainly_ wasn't fit to be anywhere _near_ children, she then had to go back and poke the very same holes in their arguments that she had done to Harry's assertions before, _and_ remind her mother that it was not _their_ job to ascertain the truth of the issue – Harry had a _lawyer_ for that.

As she was released to go back to her room, her mind still firmly set on_ 'leave me alone, you don't know what you're talking about_,' she was all the more glad that her parents had opted _not_ to designate a magical guardian for her when Professor McGonagall had suggested it. If they _had_ the school would have been _forced_ to notify her parents that Halloween about what had _really_ happened that night. And even if they had chosen _not_ to withdraw her after the run–in with the troll, she doubted all the rule–breaking and death–defying ordeals surrounding the Sorcerer's Stone would have given her _any_ chance to see the inside of Hogwarts again.

Despite everything she had said to her parents, what was going on at Hogwarts troubled her greatly. Abandonment, embezzlement, systematic neglect and abuse, giant three–headed dogs and possessed teachers – these did not sound like things the great _Albus Dumbledore_, head muckety–muck of all he surveyed, would be a part of. Harry's_ 'new friend'_ had warned that things were going to be bad at Hogwarts but it seemed that that warning had come several _years_ too late.

Rather more harshly than she intended, Hermione pulled out and flipped through the books she had that made any mention of Albus Dumbledore – only to realize that they were the same four that she had gotten for background reading, the three that had mentioned Harry plus _Hogwarts, a History_.

_Everyone has their bias_, her mother had said. _The trick was to find it_.

_Hogwarts, a History_ had a rather _glowing_ review of Dumbledore's time as Headmaster, and even held him up as the single shining point of light in the school's administration by Armando Dippet. Angry at her younger self for being so _deluded_ as to buy all of that without a second thought, even to the extent of _wanting_ to go into Gryffindor simply because it claimed both _him_ and Professor McGonagall as members, she shoved the once–beloved book aside to check the next.

_Modern Magical History, The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts, _and_ Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century_ were all full of glowing praise as well. If someone didn't know any better you'd think Magical Britain was gearing up to either crown him as their King or kneel to him as their god. It was disgusting.

Slamming the last book on top of the others, she noticed it; the way the wording lined up made it impossible to ignore.

_'Of course_,' she thought, _'a book is only as biased as its author_.'

On the spine of the books one word was repeated: Bagshot, Bagshot, _Bagshot_, _BAGSHOT_.

As quickly as that her mind was made up. Hermione grabbed the offensive texts, marched over to the trash bin by her door and stuffed them roughly inside before burying them under other trash. After a second's thought she stuffed _A History of Magic_ down there too, the preface said the woman had been editing editions of it for _decades_.

She didn't know _who_ this _Bathilda Bagshot_ was, or _how_ she knew Dumbledore, but her bias was obvious. Hermione knew _Harry_ though, and even if she had her own reservations about things, she trusted _him_.

If Harry Potter _was_ her bias, it was one that Hermione Granger had every intention of keeping.

.o0O0o.

The Headmaster's Office was strangely quiet for the Headmaster's Office, the stillness of the moment only broken by the occasional puffs, hoots, or whirring of Albus's strange silver contraptions that people have given him over the years. Any other time she would have wondered if _he_ even knew what they all did – or if they did anything at all.

Minerva looked over at the others that shared the room with her. Severus looked pale, though with his sallow skin it was hard to tell; the man always looked sickly. Hagrid was already sitting on the floor, a hand to his mouth and head slightly shaking. He was staring off into space and had been that way almost from the beginning. She didn't know how _she_ looked but thought she must be somewhere between the two.

_"Abandonment?"_ she asked, completely at a loss as to what to think. Surely it couldn't be.

"That is what they claim," Albus said in that strange nebulous way of his, as if what they were discussing didn't matter at all. "It's nonsense, of course–" the headmaster said as she began to breathe again. "I've always intended to have a relationship with the boy, once the _messiness_ of youth was behind him," Albus smiled.

Albus smiled? Albus _smiled_? How could he smile at an allegation of _abandoning_ the most famous child the country has ever seen – or _any_ child for that matter? The thought alone should have _smiling_ beyond the realm of possibility for the foreseeable future. How he should look is _concerned_.

And if that weren't enough, _goblins_ were involved now and they were alleging _bank fraud_. That would certainly be enough to keep _her_ awake at nights. Someone in the Ministry had her personal account at Gringotts _audited_ when she left – she had always thought that she must have stepped on the wrong toes during her time in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement – and the goblins had raked her over the coals for _weeks_, leaving her nothing to live on until _they_ were satisfied that nothing untoward was going on. Even then, some of them still looked at her strangely for _years_ after that.

Albus _knew_ all this, he'd been there and it was only by chance that she was able to take up residence in the castle and teach so she'd been able to _eat_ again. Something in what he said ticked in the back of her mind.

"You _intended_ to have a relationship with him – once the _mess_ was behind him?" she asked scandalized. "That's all life _is_, Albus, one mess after another. When _precisely_ were you planning on ever _talking_ to the boy, after you were both _dead_?"

"We actually had two very nice conversations just last year," Albus said jovially.

"And what of the _ten years_ before that?" she asked. "How _could_ you leave them with those people? I told you _then_ that they were the _worst_ sort of muggles _imaginable_."

"And yet," Albus said with his arms spread joyfully wide, "you agreed with me that there was where he should be."

"I thought I had no choice!" the deputy headmistress explained. "I went there to _beg_ the person from the Ministry to reconsider, no matter _what_ the law might say. I thought that was _you_. How was _I_ supposed to know that _you_ were his guardian?"

"His _magical_ _gua_-" Albus smiled.

"You can't have it both ways!" the deputy headmistress fumed. "You can't be his guardian when you _help yourself_ to his account and then _only_ his _magical_ guardian when it comes to _raising him_."

The old fool looked at her like suddenly grown gills and started spouting mermish at him.

"N-no," poor Hagrid mumbled, still shaking his head in response to Merlin alone knew what. "We didna."

"You should have just _told me_ that you didn't want him," she pressed. "I would have taken him _straight_ back to the Ministry and arrange to raise him myself."

"Which would have put you in the same position as I," Albus said. "With our obligations to the school–"

"–We have _house-elves_," she countered immediately. "They would have _loved_ the extra work of looking after him during my classes, and I couldn't _imagine_ better friends for him. He would have been in a _good_ environment, with an _entire generation_ of witches and wizards able to meet him – which would have _completely_ demystified him, and he'd able to learn everything he'd need from an early age."

"And it would have put all of us at great risk," the headmaster said sorrowfully. "I'm sure we all recall what happened to poor Frank and Alice."

_That_ chilled her to the bone like a dip in the lake in the middle of a Scottish February. How could he expect her to forget friends and former students that had been _tortured_ into insanity? They weren't like the ones that attracted no notice to themselves in class and simply slipped by, like she was sure Severus had been. For the life of her she couldn't recall anything about _him_ when he was younger.

"Even at his height, You-Know-Who never _dared_ to attack Hogwarts," she reminded him. "With him gone, the Death Eaters wouldn't have stood a chance. The only way they could have _hoped_ to breach the castle during a school year would be if you _let_ them."

She looked at her old professor with a sense of loss. What had happened to the powerful man who had so captivated the minds of young people and amazed them with the dazzling heights of spell work they could only _hope_ to achieve through hard work and nearly constant practice? Where had the brave defender of freedom gone after Grindelwald's defeat? What had happened the principled person who had stood in the halls of the Wizengamot and so bravely stated:_ 'If you allow such discriminatory laws against our brothers and sisters to take effect, simply because they happen to love the same sex themselves, not only are you condemning some of the most _prominent_ names in magical history to the realm of second class citizenry but you'll be condemning _me_ to live so as well'_?

He looked like such a poor and diminished man now; the goblins would tear him apart. And worse, he had left Hogwarts itself open to their ravenous ruin.

"I cannot _begin_ to say how disappointed I am in you, Albus," she said as she started to help Hagrid to his feet; the poor man had suffered quite a shock. "Come along, Hagrid, let's see you home."

Minerva took one last look at Albus as she left; where had her hero gone?

As the gentle giant made his way down the tightly curved staircase in front of her all the things she _should_ have said came to her mind. James and Lily had put their trust in him, they had followed him, believed in him, and _this_ was how he repaid that trust – _stealing_ from their orphan son and _abandoning_ him? He might as well have taken him into the forest to be raised by the centaurs.

Anger rising within her again, she turned back to give him another piece of her mind.

"I risked my _life_–," she heard Severus say from the other side of the door as she inched closer. "–To give her and her son a chance to survive, to make up for what I had done. Did you even _warn_ them what was going to happen or was this all a part of your _plan_? "

Minerva felt her stomach plummet. Surely Albus couldn't have changed so much as to _engineer_ the Potters' deaths. It was unthinkable, but so was him abandoning and stealing from a child. She only heard a muffled response as she pressed her ear closer to the door, not even daring to pull her wand in case she was discovered.

Albus had been secreted away with Severus so often these last several years that once she had thought them pillow friends, but the younger man's surly attitude and occasional lingering glances at some of the older female students put an end to that thought quickly. Now seemed a perfect time to catch a glimpse of what was _really_ going on between them.

"He's her _son_!" she heard Severus say. "As much as I wish he weren't, he _is_, and you leave him with _Petunia_? Tell me _again_ how _indulgent_ a mother Potter has."

_'Petunia_?' Minerva wondered. Albus had never said what the family's name was. She had found them all those years ago but couldn't even remember the surname now for the life of her, so how could _Severus_ know them so casually? _'It's almost as if–'_

Suddenly it made sense.

James Potter she _clearly_ recalled from her class, usually in the company of Sirius Black. They were _always_ causing a disruption of some sort – sword fighting with haddocks, changing the color of their hair, growing _antlers_ or _tails_ – while his eventual wife, Lily Evans, was best known for rolling her eyes, telling them to be quiet, and hanging around that thin, pale little male friend of hers that Minerva had always just referred to as Lily's Shadow.

Lily's sallow-skinned, hooked-nose, greasy-haired _Slytherin_ shadow. _That_ was where Minerva knew him from. It was _Severus Snape_. How could she have missed it? Then again, a _Slytherin_ being friends of any sort with one of her Gryffindors was just the _latest_ in a long line of unthinkable things to be true tonight. "House differences" on the question of Blood Purity must have pulled them apart at some point.

"You made me think he was some pampered little prince," Severus continued. "But he was the kind of _prince_ that no boy should have to be," he finished curiously.

"And I've always said that you saw only what you _wished_ to see," Albus said in return, sounding as if he were speaking to a distraught child.

_'Apparently we all did_,' Minerva thought to herself as she went down the spiral staircase. There was nothing more to say to Albus, nothing that would make a difference anyway. The die had been cast. With goblins involved there'd be nothing they could do short of all-out war that would stop them from tearing Hogwarts down brick-by-brick. She only wished Albus hadn't done anything else so colossally stupid.

It was only when she heard the stone gargoyle behind her move again that Minerva realized that she had spent the last several moments staring down at Hagrid's hut. Merlin alone knew what _that_ man was feeling tonight. He _treasured_ his friendship with Harry, to know that he'd been some unwitting pawn in his abandonment – it'd be devastating.

She turned to see the shadow that was Severus Snape still standing at the opening to the Headmaster's Tower.

"What are we to do, Severus?" Minerva asked. "He's put Hogwarts itself at risk, and goblins do not stop."

"Some of us are more mired in than others," he said cryptically. "And there is only one thing we _can_ do: look after what is most important to us. That's the only chance we have."

.o0O0o.

Albus could have wept as he saw the Heads of two rival Houses part ways as the gargoyle closed again. What loyal and loving friends he had! Even after their _disagreement_, after taking the news the wrong way, they had so quickly realized their mistake and was even now moving to support him. Not that he needed the support, of course. He was Albus Dumbledore. He was _always_ right, everyone would see that in time. After all, what would they do without him? Surely the world would collapse around them.

.o0O0o.

**AN:** Thanks for reading.


	13. Razzle-Dazzle

.o0O0o.

Lester kept his eyes closed as he felt his head emerge from the flames. After a precautionary puff of air out of his nose he then blew small jets of air from his mouth towards his eyes to clear any trace of loose ash that might have accumulated on his face before he'd chance opening an eye. Some might complain about getting ash in their mouths but that was only if they've never had an eyeful of the stuff. That was _not_ a pleasant experience.

Whatever his plans, a soft padded pat on the nose had both eyes open at once and Lichfield suddenly found himself eye to eye with a very curious cat. Lester retaliated at the assault of cuddly cuteness by blowing blast of air at it.

"Go away," Lester said and sent another blast of air at the tiny creature. "Shoo."

The curious calico must have decided that the mysterious head in the fire wasn't interesting enough to take another blast to find out more about it because it sauntered off with its tail held high. Now free to take a look around, Lichfield noticed one thing right away: the old woman who lived here had no taste. This coming from someone whose apartment had plain white walls and almost no decoration whatsoever, Lichfield mentally revised that to _bad_ taste rather than _no_ taste.

Probably the strangest thing about it was probably how anyone could stand to live in a place that smelled _this_ strongly of cabbage. It might be one of the mysteries of the ages.

"Hello?" Lichfield called. "Anyone home?"

The last thing he needed was some old biddy giving him the run around by constantly stepping out to get Mr. Whiskers and his eighty two offspring their own private dose of tuna every day.

"Just a moment!" a woman called from the other room.

Lichfield tried to wait patiently through the sound of feet shuffling, doors locking, and curtains being drawn. Just as the pain in his knees was about to have him damn the pretense the grey–haired old biddy in question appeared.

"Y–yes?" she asked.

"Sorry to interrupt," Lichfield smiled. "Are you Arabella Figg of _Figg Leaf Breeding_?"

"Oh, um – yes," the curious woman answered.

"Wonderful! Do you mind if I come through?" he asked.

"I suppose not," she said.

On wild impulse, Lester tried something he'd always been curious about. Feeling his body back at Gringotts, he kept his hand as close to his neck as possible and followed it towards his head until he was reaching into the flames. It was a curiously _twisty_ sensation, but soon enough his hand and arm popped out of the fire next to his face. Repeating the process on the other side and with a couple self–shoves on both ends soon had the Figg fireplace giving birth to a very old and gnarled Lichfield.

"Sorry about that," Lester said, standing up and dusting himself off. "Didn't want to chance spooking some of them or treading on one of those cats," he explained, gesturing to the growing flock of fur balls around the room.

"That's – thoughtful of you," the woman said uncertainly.

"Oh, where's my head?" Lichfield asked with a smile. "I'm Lester and I got your name from Gringotts. It seems you inquired about an investment opportunity and acquiring a few more Kneazles for your operation? I've always found that getting to know the person behind the business to be the best way to go about things, don't you?"

"Oh, of course!" the curious Mrs. Figg said now smiling. "Why don't you sit down and I'll make us a spot of tea?" she asked as she hustled him towards the small kitchen table and started bustling around the room.

"Curious to find an animal breeder in a muggle neighborhood, isn't it?" Lichfield asked.

"Oh, I don't mind muggles," Arabella said as she put the pot on to boil. "They love cats even more than we do, so there are plenty of kinds of toys and such they've come up with for the animals to play with. Plus, no one here bothers to look into the affairs of an old lady with a bunch of cats."

Lester found it amusing that the woman transitioned so smoothly from pretending to be a muggle to pretending to be a witch. It made him wonder how far a Squib could go with a bit of acting and a good deal of luck.

"So, you interested in breeding?" the old woman asked. _"Cat_ breeding," she quickly corrected.

"I found the kneazle mixture to be interesting," Lester said. "But what intrigued me most was how close this house was to Privet Drive."

"P–Privet Drive?" the suddenly nervous woman asked as she removed the whistling teapot from the burner and added the tea. "What could _possibly_ be of interest there? Just one muggle place after the next."

"Well that _is_ where Harry Potter lives, isn't it?" Lester asked as total silence fell. "Tell me, why didn't you go to _him_ for this investment? He owns this house, after all, _and_ is your business's primary backer."

The curious old squib turned to look at him with large panicked eyes.

"With him living right down the street, you must see him all the time," Lester continued with a smile. "Did he not think it was a good idea?"

He expected evasions; he expected denials, what he didn't expect was a well–aimed teapot scalding him and sending hot water all over the room. Damn squibs were crafty, and quick. The only thing left of her at the last place he looked was a single tartan house slipper. Emerald flames erupted in the fireplace and if it weren't for a quick flick of his wand the old biddy would've gotten away.

"Help!" the old woman cried to the flames as she fell to the floor with conjured ropes all around her.

Lichfield Summoned the woman to him and held her in front of him like a shield as twin gouts of flames saw a couple of young people shoot out of the fireplace.

"Halt! Aurors!" one young girl with pink hair called, before promptly tripping on the rogue teapot and tumbling to a _halt_ herself.

"Aurors, you?" Lester had a good laugh. "You pups couldn't be any higher than trainee cadets. What, did everyone else go out for a long lunch and not come back?"

Somewhat embarrassed looks passed between the kids that some fool had left too close to the floo network. The pink–haired girl's hair shifted slightly towards red before returning to its _normal_ color as she stood.

"Release the woman and give yourself up," Pink–Hair's compatriot commanded. The boy didn't look like he was old enough to shave.

"Why should I?" Lichfield asked. "I'm a Bailiff and here in my official capacity, but _you?_ What're new recruits like you doing out without someone to change your nappy?"

Mr. No–Need–To–Shave–Yet looked to Pink–Hair for support. These kids had no _idea_ what they were doing. If someone _intelligent_ had been there though, sending them in would be a nice diversionary tactic while they snuck up from behind. If that person didn't mind them being killed before they could get the drop on him that is.

"Tell me," Lichfield said. "Is that old _coot,_ Alastor, still working there?" Lester saw in the flicker in their eyes that he was. "You tell him I said, _'razzle–dazzle!'"_

And with a swirl of color and a hooked feeling behind his navel, the old bailiff left the fool kids wondering what the hell had just happened.

.o0O0o.

If the bright mid-morning sun had Severus hating the blighted orb slightly more than usual, the children running along Diagon Alley had him hating all of mankind. Was there nowhere he could go and no time of day that would see him safe from those intrusive dunderheads?

Catching sight of a sign to his right that had a particularly large group of the little urchins in front of it, Severus angled his way there. Before he had even crossed the intervening space one of them had seen his reflection in the window and they had decided, en masse, to go _elsewhere_. There were benefits to being the most hated teacher in the history of Hogwarts.

The garish green sign had promised a spectacle, and it delivered. Set out like an exhibit at a museum, a dirty and peeling set of trainers sat next to the traced footprints of an orphaned boy, and next to them was a copy of what the boy would be wearing from now on.

Severus wanted to point to the _autograph_ the boy had included or the _expense_ that must've gone into the new shoes themselves and see nothing more than pampered privilege, but the fact remained that the boy had taken better care of himself in that one act than _Albus Dumbledore_ had done in the ten years before it.

The night before, the man had dared to ask if he had formed an _attachment_ to the boy. If the man had any sense remaining he would have known that it doesn't take an _attachment_ to know that even people you despise for being who they were still deserved a minimal level of common decency shown to them. If he still had any doubts at all on his current course of action, those trainers had settled them.

He left the display quickly before the odious shopkeeper could solicit his patronage. Down the Alley he went, most shoppers moving aside to open a space for him – though more out of fear and uncertainty than from respect. These people were all fools and only a fool would want respect from them. Severus gladly took their fear; fear made them move faster anyway.

The goblin guards of Gringotts noticed him when he was still two shops away from the bank. He noticed that they noticed that he had noticed, and noticed now they shifted slightly as he made to enter the bank itself. The goblins bowed courteously, as was their custom, and Severus strode through the large double doors without giving them any apparent notice, as was _his_ custom.

The bank was thrumming with activity, kicked into high gear by breeders flocking with their ungainly spawn to purchase putrid potions paraphernalia pawned off on them by sloppy shopkeepers who knew they wouldn't know the difference. Some tried to blame _him_ for their precious little spawn not knowing if their Fluxweed was flattened or their Knotgrass was too knotty, but if the breeders couldn't take the time to look after their own spawn then they shouldn't have spawned at all.

After waiting in line for several infuriatingly slow minutes behind a particularly annoying mother and urchin, one he seemed to recall asking for an extension on his essay last term, which he had so gladly denied, Severus finally got to the teller.

"Ah, Professor Snape," the goblin said. "We don't often get the Hogwarts crowd in here, but now we seem to have one a day. You normally do your transactions through mail, don't you?"

"I think we both know that would be useless to try and do now, wouldn't it?" Severus asked with a knowing sneer.

"It would," the teller smiled.

"Then you may tell – whoever it is – that I am here for a rather _informative_ meeting."

The teller looked at him closely and nodded before slamming a_ 'Next Teller Please'_ sign on his desk and gesturing to a door to the side.

"This way, professor."

Hearing the groans from people behind him, and knowing that he was forcing them to wait in _yet another line _by taking the teller away, gave Severus one last moment of joy to sustain him through what would come next.

.o0O0o.

Harry was hunched over his desk when his door slowly opened. Trying to put everything into one letter was quite a job to do, and he couldn't help feeling that he was still forgetting a couple of things. All the big stuff was in there though, so he didn't think that Hermione could complain too much. At least now she'd know as much as he could remember to tell her.

He saw slow movement of a red blur at the edge of his vision and knew it could only be one thing. Harry ignored it for a while to concentrate on reviewing the letter. Was there another bit about Hogwarts he was forgetting about? Harry mentally shrugged it aside. If he was forgetting about it then it must not be that important.

Someone cleared their throat from near the door.

"Hey, Ron," he said as he folded up the letter.

"Er – Hey, Harry," Ron answered as Hedwig made her way down from her perch on top of the wardrobe.

"Did you need something?" Harry asked while concentrating on fastening the letter for its trip.

"Do you really not care?" his friend asked nebulously.

Hedwig flew out the window before he turned to Ron.

"Do I not care about _what,_ Ron?" he asked, trying to get the echo of _'Some _friend_ you are, Harry,_' out of his head.

"Money," his sort–of–friend said. "All that money that Dumbledore stole from you. Do you really not care?"

"That was my parents' money," Harry explained. "I never knew it was there, but that doesn't mean I want it stolen either. It's the only thing I have left of them."

"So your concern is about your _parents_ and not the money?" the red head asked.

_"__Yes,_ Ron. It's the only thing I have to remember them by, the only thing to show that anyone ever cared about me, but I'd trade all that away in a second if I could get them back, wouldn't you?"

"What?" Ron said stupidly.

"If you had all the money you could ever want," Harry asked. "Enough to buy _anything_ you could _ever_ want and _still_ have more than you could ever spend in a _lifetime_, but what you _didn't_ have was your family – wouldn't you be willing to trade all of that away to get them back?"

"That's – Woah, that's a lot of money, Harry," Ron said with a grin. "With that you could do _anything_."

"Anything but get your family back," Harry corrected. "No Fred, no George, no mum and dad, no Bill or Charlie, not even Percy and Ginny. If the only chance you had to see them again was to give it all back, wouldn't you do it?"

Ron seemed to flounder.

"All of it?" Ron asked incredulously, sitting down on Harry's bed. "That's a _lot_ of money. We're talking about a mountain of gold the size of _Hogwarts_ here. We could buy _Quidditch teams_ for a _tiny bit_ of that."

"Isn't your family worth more?" Harry asked, wondering if his friend would ever get it. "Besides, I'm not there."

"You're not?" he asked.

"Nope, you're all by yourself," Harry said. "But you can get your family back if you give up the money."

"Well, I could see giving up _a bit_ more than that – maybe, maybe _half_," Ron said.

"Sorry," Harry said. "If going to get them back then you're going to have to give up the _whole thing_. It's just the way it works."

"That's just greedy!" Ron said, not even catching the irony. "I wouldn't be any better off than I am _right now_."

"You have a family that _loves_ you, right now," Harry replied. "I'd give all the money I have to have what you have _right now_. What's the point of just _having_ money if you don't have anyone to share it with?"

Harry watched as Ron's eyes darted about unfocused. He had seen this happen a time or two before, on the rare occasions where he was actually doing _well_ in a game of chess against him, and Harry thought he knew what was happening. Ron was probably imagining flying on a top of the line broom, swooping around his mountain of gold and through tiny twisting tunnels inside it, or sitting down to a feast fit for a hundred people and having it all to himself, or perhaps even lounging around a mansion full of really expensive things, with a wonderful view of his mountain of gold – but everywhere he went, no matter what he bought, he'd still be alone. Suddenly all of those things, and all that gold, didn't seem quite so valuable any more.

"I never thought of that before," Ron said, running a hand through his hair. "So – you're really _living_ here now?"

"Well, yeah," Harry shrugged. "Your sister needed to go to school and I needed a place to live; it seemed like a good deal."

"And you don't even care how much it costs?" Ron asked.

"You guys have been nice to me," Harry said. "That's all I care about."

"I've been an idiot," Ron said sourly.

Ron was still looking at him oddly after breakfast the next morning, though it could have been the fact that he had stacks of books lying around him and was still digging through the Weasleys bookshelves that had him looking like that… or the fact that he had begged off Quidditch until after lunch so that he could continue digging, Harry wasn't really sure.

What he couldn't believe was that he'd been walking back and forth in front of a _goldmine_ all week and had never even noticed. The shelves were stacked three rows deep! Sure, the first row was full of books telling you how you could charm your own cheese and things like that, and the second row was all about child–rearing, home-building, and old catalogs of muggle appliances, but the row behind _that_ actually had _real_ books.

There were books on plants, and books on caring for animals, books on healing minor scrapes and curing minor ills without the need for a Healer – which Harry supposed must be what they called a wizarding doctor. There were the standard kind of textbooks you'd find at Hogwarts, and then there were some topics he'd ever even seen before. There was one called _Simply Enchanting_ that was full of strange symbols, charts full of numbers, and strange shapes that seemed made of nothing but odd angles.

What Harry hadn't expected to find was a _handwritten_ book. A handwritten leather–bound _journal_ if he wanted to strive for Hermione–like preciseness. _This_ was pretty much a mish–mash of just about everything: household plants and their uses, cooking recipes with potions ingredients in it – which presumably did _something_ for whoever ate it, pages of those odd symbols and angular designs, even plans for a house that looked _nothing_ like the Burrow.

Harry was wondering how something like _this_ could've made its way into the Weasley home when on the very next page he saw it: the design of a clock. It wasn't just _any_ clock though, it was the _Weasley_ clock – it really couldn't have been anything else. Around the sides were some of the same phrases, though some, like _'Time to Feed the Baby_,' were obviously different. The curious part though was that each one had a string of those strange symbols with it. The _real_ clock didn't have those on it – or did it?

Harry was just getting up to check when he heard Mr. and Mrs. _'It's still strange to call her Molly'_ Weasley coming down the stairs.

"No, absolutely not," Mr. Weasley was saying as he hurried away from his wife. "I'll hex it off first. We said when we had Ginny that we weren't having any more kids. We're not going to have more just because you think you'll feel – Harry! I thought you were upstairs with the boys."

Mrs. Weasley smacked her husband on the shoulder.

_"__This,_" she said, gesturing to Harry, "is why you don't build a house _vertically._ This is the _second time_ I've had embarrassing conversations while walking in on him."

"Third, actually," Harry admitted. "The first time I hid in the kitchen until it was over."

Molly hid her face in her hand in embarrassment.

"Right," Mr. Weasley said to his wife. "Next time we build the house _your way._"

Harry chuckled.

"Was that the house I found in this?" he asked, holding up the journal.

"Oh, now where did you find–," Mrs. Weasley started before seeing all the books strewn about as she rounded the couch. "I guess I don't have to ask _that _question, do I?"

Mrs. Weasley smiled as she flipped through the old journal.

"Oh, look, Arthur!" she said excitedly. "There's that recipe I had to incorporate a Sound Sleeping Solution into a meatloaf."

"So it is," Mr. Weasley said with a less than enthusiastic look. "We're _so_ lucky you found that, Harry."

"Yes, well, it may not have tasted like custard cream but it got the job done," Molly said defensively. "And I didn't hear you complaining when the kids were little."

Mr. Weasley shrugged noncommittally.

"Aw, _there's_ my house," she said fondly as she flipped through to the next page.

"Would have been hard to press all nine of us in that little thing," Mr. Weasley said appraisingly.

"That's the beauty of _normal_ homes, Arthur," Mrs. Weasley chided. "You can build _out_ – not just _up_."

"I was going for a nice tower look," Arthur said evasively.

"You and Xeno both," Molly said with a shake of her head. "And my clock! I had forgotten that was in here. My, it was so simple in the beginning, wasn't it?"

Harry hadn't thought there was anything _simple_ about the drawing he'd seen; it was the most complicated thing he'd ever seen, and he said so.

"Oh, no, enchanting's actually quite simple once you know the basics," Molly said with a wave. "The hard part came later. You have any idea how _tricky _it was to get _one _object to track nine others all at the same time, especially when they're all related? I'm lucky it didn't turn out to be as big as a house."

"Do they teach that at Hogwarts?" Harry asked, his interest piqued.

"They touch on it a little at N.E.W.T. level, once you know the basics," she answered.

"Newt?" Harry asked.

"Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests," Mr. Weasley explained, looking over his wife's shoulder. "They come after Ordinary Wizarding Levels in your fifth year."

"They used to have a whole class dedicated to it," Mrs. Weasley said. "But something bad happened when we were younger and a bunch of people died – turned people off the subject."

"You've got a bad rune there," Arthur said.

"What? Where?" Mrs. Weasley asked.

"Just there," her husband said, pointing to one of the symbols on the page. "That says 'chickens' not 'baby'."

"Yes, well," a flustered Mrs. Weasley said, quickly flipping through the journal again. "Nobody's perfect."

"Hang on, is that why we got chickens in the first place?" Mr. Weasley asked. _"'Oh, Arthur, you _know _I've always wanted chickens,_'" he said in a fair approximation of Mrs. Weasley's voice. "You made a mistake and couldn't admit the truth?"

Mrs. Weasley snapped the journal shut.

"I may not be as bad as my brothers," she said drawing herself up to her full height, which, seeing as she was rather short, didn't amount to much. "–But that doesn't mean I'm not without my own bit of Prewett pride."

"Have you thought about what you're going to do with the extra money this year?" Harry asked, thinking it might be best to distract the Molly.

"I'm – I'm not sure I follow you," Mrs. Weasley said, looking at him strangely.

"Well," Harry said with a shrug, "Lichfield said that we can't collect rent until the whole thing with Dumbledore and that guardianship thing is taken care of, so that'll help you out. And even then," he continued, somewhat embarrassed, "you guys have been so nice; it wouldn't feel right taking your money after you let me stay here. I'd let you _have _the place, but I think Lichfield would poke me to death if I even mentioned selling it."

"You'd – you'd sell us the Burrow?" Arthur asked shocked.

"Well, yeah," Harry said. "It's your home."

Harry suddenly found himself pressed against the warm fleshy bits of Mrs. Weasley in his first ever hug from a mom. It was rather uncomfortable; he didn't know what to do with his hands. Mr. Weasley, however, seemed to know exactly what to do with _his_ hands, he ruffled up Harry's messy mop of hair even more than it normally was.

"You're such a good boy, Harry," Mrs. Weasley said.

Harry finally decided that giving her a pat on the back was probably the least he could do.

"Oi!" one of the twins called from the stairs. "I thought we told you-"

"-We're never gonna call you 'Dad,'" the other twin finished for him.

"You should be so lucky," their mother chided, walking off into the kitchen with her husband while flipping through the journal again.

"You've got her wrapped around your finger," Ron said amazed, "and you've barely been here a _week_."

"Can you imagine what it'd be like by this time next year?" Fred said with a grin. "We really will be calling him 'Dad' at this rate."

"Nah," George said, "You're forgetting Hermione. She'd probably challenge mum to a duel for Harry's hand."

"You think we could sell tickets?" Fred grinned again, his eyes growing to the size of galleons.

"You're all bloody mental," an exasperated Ron said. "Come on out with us, Harry," he said, changing the subject. "We could use another Chaser. _These two_ need all the help they can get to get one past me."

The twins looked at their brother like he had lost what sense he had and were determined to bring him down a peg or three. It didn't look like it was going to be pretty.

"Sure," Harry said, "I'll come. You guys go ahead, I'll grab my broom."

He just got back downstairs when he met Mrs. Weasley at the foot of the stairs.

"Er – Harry," she said uncertainly. "You've got a call in the kitchen."

Harry hadn't seen a telephone the entire time he'd been at the Burrow, so getting a call from anyone was rather unexpected. Plus, besides Gringotts and Dumbledore, who else knew he was here? It couldn't be Hermione; he hadn't even known a number to give her so she _could_ call.

Following Mrs. Weasley to the kitchen, what he found wasn't a telephone at all – it was a head sitting in the fireplace wreathed in floo flames; Professor McGonagall's head. Harry was instantly wary; his first thought was that Dumbledore had sent her. He relaxed a little though when Mrs. Weasley started puttering around the kitchen doing unnecessary cleaning, making sure to shoot suspicious looks at the floo from time to time.

"Mr. Potter, sorry for disturbing you during your break," his Head of House said, for once not sounding like he should be making better use of his time. "We at Hogwarts have been made aware of your current _difficulties_ with Professor Dumbledore."

Harry thought _'difficulties'_ was a bit too forgiving but was willing to let her keep talking.

"Unfortunately," she continued, seeming rather perturbed with the situation. "It's not within my power to issue a refund for all the _allegedly_ misappropriated funds," she said in a tone that clearly said that she didn't doubt the _alleged_ part at all. "Nor am I authorized to issue any sort of official statement on behalf of the school. _Unofficially,_ I can say that I and the rest of the staff have found the headmaster's actions towards you to have been absolutely abhorrent."

He watched as the transfiguration professor looked away from him.

"I know Hagrid has taken this particularly hard," she said, choosing to look at the closest table leg rather than at him. "We both deeply regret any unwitting role we played that night, and I surely wish that I had tried harder to change his mind when he left you there, but can only say that I _thought_ he was merely enforcing the law."

Harry felt like he'd been punched in the gut. It had been agonizing enough to piece together that Hagrid had been manipulated into taking him to Gringotts in the first place, but now _McGonagall_ had been there the night he'd been left on the Dursleys' doorstep? Just how mangled up _was_ the wizarding world? Would he next be learning that he had spit up on Madam Hooch's shoulder and Madam Pomfrey had helped birth him?

"While this may _change_ your opinion of some of the staff," McGonagall continued, looking up at him again. "I can only hope that it doesn't change your opinion of the school itself."

Harry wanted to say something, but couldn't think of an empty platitude to say that he could even remotely mean at the moment.

"To that end, if you're willing, I would like to arrange an informal meeting with the students affected by the Hogwarts Hopefuls Scholarship Program."

This even got Mrs. Weasley's attention; her look changed from wary disapproval to curiosity.

"Why?" Harry asked.

"Because it has changed _my_ opinion of the school," McGonagall explained. "The school, and Professor Dumbledore, has gained a lot of goodwill in the last several years; goodwill that it doesn't deserve. You have been wronged," his Head of House declared. "Not only was the _money_ taken from you, but the credit for it as well. And while I cannot give you the money back, I can give you the credit."

"I don't need the credit," Harry said, shaking his head. With the goblins reversing all the transfers Dumbledore ordered and them going after Hogwarts in order to get all that money back there really wasn't anything to get credit _for_. Then again, McGonagall probably _knew_ that.

"You may not need it," the transfiguration professor said, "but _you_ deserve it more than _he_ does."

Harry couldn't help but to agree with that. It would feel good to take something of Dumbledore's for a change; even if it wasn't something you could hold in your hand or lock away in a vault. Something of his feelings must have shown on his face.

"I was thinking this Wednesday," McGonagall said, "in one of the Leaky Cauldron's private dining rooms, if that would work out for you. I'd be supplying lunch as well."

"Harry already has plans for this Wednesday," Mrs. Weasley said to herself. "My floo is always available to him though."

He looked over at Mrs. Weasley curiously and got a little smile in return. Harry smiled back as he realized what she had just done. She wasn't trying to be nosy or interfere, essentially saying he was free to come and go whenever he wanted, she just didn't want his _plans_ with Hermione to be ruined. Maybe _Molly_ was a friend after all. Still, it wouldn't hurt to be prepared.

"Thursday would be better for me," Harry said, earning him a pat on the head as Molly left the room. "I would like Litigator Lichfield of Gringotts Bank to be there though, and he would probably like to talk to you."

"I don't really see what I could possibly contribute," McGonagall said curiously. "But if you wish, I'll give him a call. I shall see you then. Have a good day."

Harry wished her a good day and her head disappeared with a _pop!_

At times Harry wished all he had to worry about was Quidditch.

.o0O0o.

Deep within Gringotts, Barchoke wiped his shaven head as Severus Snape came out from under the effects of the Veritaserum he had been dosed with. For a human whose job it was to prepare potions, he was for some reason loath to put his faith in them when it came to questioning. After dealing with Dumbledore though Barchoke wasn't taking any chances. Veritaserum, Truth Quills, and Memories: the three nails for Dumbledore's public crucifixion.

The human had been intelligent though, probably knowing that it might take what he most wanted to avoid if he were to avoid… what he most wanted to avoid... Goblins weren't fools though; the Purging Potion and Veritaserum he had brought with him had been switched with some of their own make. The human had probably knew they would be and only brought them to offset any balance against him if their subsequent testing proved them just as good, if not better, than the ones they had used.

_That_ had been the whole thrust of the meeting: rectifying the balance; _that_ was why Auditor Axegrind had been brought in and why they now had ten years of Personal Account Statements and a detailed listing of rare and expensive potions ingredients, their estimated value, and potential buyers for them to go through. Snape had put everything of value that he had on the table and said, essentially, "Take it all."

Yes, the human was wily.

It was the kind of exchange that goblins were always wary of because it was never certain what the other side was trying to buy. It always left them uncertain as to what questions to ask too, though _"What do you hope to gain by this?"_ was always top of the list, even if the answer was invariably, _"I want you to leave me alone_."

The questions had been direct, pointed. They wanted to know _where_ the money had come from, where he had been _told_ it had come from, and what it was _for, _though only the second part was particularly important to them. The last part, why Snape had been paid so well, had them wondering if Dumbledore was insane or as clever as they come.

Albus Dumbledore had a repentant pet Death Eater on the Hogwarts payroll for more than ten years and had been paying him to be his personal spy in case the Dark Lord ever returned. _That_ was insane. The payments always coming from "donations" from phantom accounts that disappeared as soon as you looked for them. _That_ was clever.

It was times like this that Barchoke wished he had a wizard's knowledge of magic. A wizard's magic was practical, theoretical, or mathematical in nature while a goblin's magic, such as it was, was instinctual and crafty. Magic, for a goblin, literally had to be _worked_ into an object though _how_ was never quite clear, even to them. That was why the goblin race had always wanted _wands._ With _wands_ the magic simply _was,_ the instinct directed by thought rather than craft. And with a wizard's way of magic too–

With Lester distracted with that Figg woman, the Overseer was on his own and at a loss since he didn't know what other questions to ask, or even how to understand any answers that would've been given even if he _had_ the questions _to_ ask. In the end he had no other alternative but to add a binding stipulation to come in should they have any more questions before they allowed him to go.

"That _last_ part," the potions professor said, referring to the Auditor's last question: _'Why did you want to work for Dumbledore against the Dark Lord in the first place?'_ while his hands flexed beside him as if he wanted to go for throats. "That will not be repeated outside this room."

It was Auditor Axegrind that spoke to the implied threat.

"It will be repeated anywhere we damn well please and as loudly as we choose," the goblin in black barked back at him. "It's not like anyone would _believe_ it, even if we did. _'Master, could you please try _not_ killing this one, I'd like to keep her as a _pet._ Kill the _kid_ though_,' is hardly an expression of _love_. Now get out," he dismissed the human with a wave.

The presence of armed guards and the fact that the human had no wand probably had more to do with his quick exit than anything else.

Severus Snape had _loved_ Lily Evans? Who cares?

"Overseer Barchoke," a lowly cart operator said from the door. "There is a floo-call for Litigator Lichfield, but he still doesn't want to be disturbed. It's Deputy Headmistress McGonagall."

"Tell her to come in," Barchoke replied. "When she does, I'll pry the man out of there if I have to."

Having never had the excuse to go outside during a storm Barchoke didn't know if this was true, but the human expression _'when it rained, it poured_,' seemed appropriate.

.o0O0o.

Severus stood naked and exposed for all Diagon Alley to see, or at least that's the way he felt. He pulled his cloak around him more tightly and tried to look at things objectively as he walked back to the Leaky Cauldron. Not all of his secrets had been laid bare, only the ones he had never wanted anyone to know, and those were the ones the goblins had so laughingly tossed back into his face as being worthless.

He had been hoping to go through the questioning without the use of veritaserum, or at least to have the questioning done with the supply he had brought. He had no doubts as to the quality of potions of his own make, and he had been diligent that his vertiaserum was of the finest quality imaginable for only that quality would leave the one who imbibed it truthful yet without the dream-like state where they volunteered too much information.

Had he been able to take his own potion he would've been free to truthfully tell them that what they had asked had no baring on Albus Dumbledore's abandonment of the boy. They had taken his potion to reimburse themselves for the vile swill they had used on him and had left him in a near catatonic stupor. Even with Occlumency skills as refined as his there was no defense against veritaserum. How could your mind be coherent enough to mount any defense when the potion's magic was seeping through your very veins to assault the brain directly?

As it was, the questioning could have been worse. It wasn't over, true; he'd feel compelled to return if they summoned him for more questioning, but it should be over for now. The goblins had been strictly focused, for the most part, wanting to know what he knew of the abandonment - which was negligible - and Dumbledore's financial misdeeds - which he knew only slightly more about, though only through piecing things together.

Severus had never bought the Headmaster's line that "unnamed benefactors" had been impressed with his role in the war and wanted to show their continued appreciation by donating to a private fund so he could acquire the quality and rarity of supplies he was always after for his own research. Whenever he had tried to find those "benefactors" they would slip away like ghosts, so in the end he had simply made use of the money some fools would leave for him. Never had he thought it had been pried from Potter's cold, dead hands.

He was why the potions master had gone to Gringotts today. If anyone was capable of reaching out from beyond the grave to drag others down with him it was James Potter. He had done so with his one-time cohort, Sirius Black, for his betrayal, and now there were goblins involved. Severus knew that returning every illegal Knut he had been given, even showing the _investment_ had turned a profit, was the only way to avoid a similar fate. After all, nothing was more important to Severus Snape than Severus Snape and as far as _money_ was concerned, he and Potter were square.

Lily Evans though had been his friend first and by the Unwritten Rules of Men that meant she was _his_. He had first claim to her and Potter had snaked her out from under him - before she could ever be under him. She had never been a Potter and never would be, as far as he was concerned. And while she may have hated him for words said in haste, she had no grounds to hold them against him so unjustly when he had debased himself and apologized.

She had cause to be angry, but she had no cause to run off with Potter and spread her legs for him - to give Potter what had belonged to _him_ by right. If any sort of afterlife existed, if she had any way of seeing what was going on in the world, then she only had herself to blame when it came to the boy. If she hadn't been so spitefully stubborn as to run off with Potter when _he_ could have hidden her instead, when she had defiled herself by sleeping with him and getting with child, and she had trusted his stupid band of miscreants to protect her from the Dark Lord, then yes, she _did_ only have herself to blame.

If any lingering spirit of Lily Evans waited for him on the other side death then she only had herself to blame for how he treated the boy too. The boy had come from her, the eyes said so, but how could she think that he'd treat him as anything other than what he was: the proof of her sin against him. How could she think the boy would be anything to him but walking embodiment of her spite and betrayal. The boy should never had been born, the fact that he _was_ when a young child named Snape should have been in his place was something he could never forgive.

The goblin said that what he felt was hardly an expression of love; so be it. If he couldn't hide himself away with thoughts of how things should have gone and call that love then he wanted this thing with Albus done with all the sooner. Then he'd be free to hate them all equally: the prancing ponce Potter, the stupid girl that had betrayed him, and the Boy-Who-Shouldn't-Have-Been-Born.

.o0O0o.

It had been a tiring couple of days for Lester Lichfield, so tiring that he hadn't even bothered to torment his downstairs neighbor – besides flattening the rubber wheels the boy's automocar moved around on. He looked up the steep flight of stairs to the inner door to his apartment and began the trudge upward with a groan. He really needed to install a floo so he wouldn't have to rely on the regional public one, but who knew if the fools in the Ministry would get around to clearing it out before the landlord came by checking to see if he was dead when he didn't pay rent one month.

When he moved to set down his briefcase, Lester knew that something wasn't right. There was no pitter-patter of little feet scurrying over for work and that could only mean – Lichfield drew his wand and whirled to the right, aiming for the apartment's single chair. Sitting there he saw a surprised-looking Mipsy with a dripping ice-cream cone almost as big as she was; her tongue paused halfway to giving the swirling vanilla tower another good lick.

She smiled and pointed behind him just as he felt a wand press into his back.

"Constant vigilance," the man behind him said.

The silence of the moment was suspended just long enough for Lester to consider, and then reject, the idea of spinning around and knocking the wand behind him away. This wasn't some first year recruit; no doubt he'd have another wand held further away out of his range. Formalities must be observed though.

"You know I lost Constance a long time ago," Lester said in reply, just as he had since the day his wife had died.

The man behind him grunted in recognition, though it did nothing to sooth the growing look of concern on the house-elf's face.

"And I still say that you're a damn fool for having left," the gruff voice said.

Lester returned the grunt of recognition, though he had never had any doubts as to who the man was. As he began to turn to face the visitor the wand pressed into his back even more.

"Mind telling me why there's still a wand in my back?" Lester asked.

"Mind telling me why you abducted an old friend of mine?" the man behind him answered.

"What makes you think I did something like that?" Lester asked, motioning to the young elf to remain seated and enjoy the rare treat as he went about replacing his wand in his pocket and removing his outer robe. Just because the visitor was being persnickety was no reason Lester couldn't make himself at home in his own apartment.

"A wizened old codger is unphased by two trainees showing up, displays clear knowledge of the inner workings of the Department, claims to be a bailiff, asks for me by name, and then uses an registered emergency portkey activated by 'razzle-dazzle'?" the voice rattled off. "Yeah, I'd say that's you. Thanks for not killing the kids, by the way."

"Not a problem," Lester said, removing his shoes. "Wouldn't want to kill the recruit you've been spending a lifetime looking for. Where'd you find a metamorphamagus anyway?"

"Albus pointed me at her years ago," the growling voice grunted. "If I can get her to stop being a klutz she'd be great; if she was a Slytherin she'd be terrifying. Records say you're no longer active, how'd you get your hands on that old portkey?"

"It's been on the shelf over there the whole time," Lester gestured. "You didn't think I'd give up the real one, did you? Besides, they never had the authority to fire me. The change of status form must have slipped my mind," he said dryly. "I take it that you also saw who's allegedly in charge of the outfit I'm supposed to be working for?"

"That's why I'm here and not there," the voice growled. "I'd like to get some answers before I try to get some answers."

"Splendid," Lester said. "I assume I can turn around now?"

The visitor grunted again.

Lester turned and took in the form of his old friend, particularly the overly scarred face, wooden leg, missing chunk of nose, and the large blue magical eye that swiveled around in one socket. The man had lost all three bits of him since he had seen him last.

"Damn, Alastor," he said dryly. "You just keep getting prettier, don't you? Is that why you're upset," Lester verbally poked, "did I kidnap your cuddle-bunny?"

The way the man's scars pulled to one side gave Lester the impression that he wasn't in a joking mood. Seems that Moody was really starting to live up to his name.

"Mipsy," Lester said, finally addressing the elf. "Once you finish that up and put the clothes away you can-"

In a flash his shoes and robe had disappeared, leaving Mipsy standing in the kitchen with her hands clutched to her head in pain.

"Don't eat it all at once you crazy little-," he mumbled as he shook his head. "Get started on a proper dinner," he called, "Alastor's staying."

The look of pure joy on the elf's face made for an interesting contrast to Moody's eye bouncing around as if he expected the walls to start attacking him. Lester noticed the man's customary hip-flask and how the eye darted back in the direction of the cleaning supplies. The man had been overly cautious twenty years ago, now it seemed that he had blown past paranoid.

"Don't add any poison to his food," Lester called to Mipsy. "He's a guest."

After a moment he added, "Don't add any poison to _my_ food either."

"Yes, Mister Lichy. You want me to poison you later?" the friendly elf asked, finally earning a chuckle from the mad old Auror.

"No. Never poison anyone," Lester clarified as the elf went to work.

Alastor's magical eye seemed to roll into the back of his head so it could keep the elf in sight, leaving Lester wondering what it'd be like to have two of those things spinning around in his head; he'd probably forget which way was forward within a week.

"I thought you didn't like elves," Moody remarked as he conjured his own chair to sit on.

"Just because I've never seen the need for one doesn't mean I don't like them," Lester replied. "Besides, the girl was a barely above an infant. Her grandparents were gone, her parents were on the way out, her Family had been devastated, and I was the only one even remotely connected to it. What was I going to do, let her die?"

Mipsy had outdone herself when it came to dinner. Lester had always been a very picky eater but the little elf seemed to know what he liked, even when he didn't know how she knew what he liked. Maybe he had been more than a little negligent in his care for her, but at least he hadn't abandoned her. He would have to rectify that mistreatment and give her more work to do, and he'd have to see about having her form connections to other people for when the inevitable happened.

Lester found that once Alastor had his assurance that Mrs. Figg would be released once she agreed to cooperate and testify, he was an energetic audience. Every piece of information was scrutinized, alternate theories were purposed, and different interpretations outlined. The sticking point to him was whether or not legal guardianship had been transferred to these Dursleys, to which Lester replied that he was welcome to look into it, even if the boy didn't want them involved. What Lester was interested in was just how Dumbledore had gained that guardianship to begin with.

"They were killed that Halloween," he said, pointing to the date on the boy's guardianship papers. "How is it that the old man got the boy the very next day in time to abandon him that very night?"

"The next day?" Moody growled, his blue eye swiveling from the bank records to the papers in question. "That was a crazy day, but - I'll be damned."

"What is it?" Lester asked. "Why is that day so important?"

"That was the so-called trial for Sirius Black."

.o0O0o.

**AN:** When I was on vacation the last Snape scene here kept bugging me. I wanted to include it and more of the Moody scene when I first posted this but didn't have the time to write it before it was time to leave work behind. I thought better to give you part of the whole than to have you wait all this time until I could get back to it. Anyway, now that I'm back I wanted to finish things up right - leaving the next chapter free to start fresh with Diagon Alley.

Thanks for reading.


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